TRARY 


la 


EMPLE  BAILEY 


lUuo       (^OA/^ii^Ut^ 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/contrarymaryOObailiala 


Hi 


CONTRARY 
MARY 


BY 

TEMPLE  BAILEY 

AUTHOR  OF 

GLORY  OF  YOUTH 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BT 

CHARLES  S.  CORSON 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


M«de  in  the  United  Stales  of  America 


COPYRIGHT 
19  14  BY 
THE  PENN 
PUBLISHING 
COMPANY 


First  printing,  December,  19I4 
Second  printing,  February,  1915 
Third  printing,  March,  1915 
Fourth  printing,  March,  1915 
Fifth  printing,  April,  1915 
Sixth  printing,  July,  191 5 
Seventh  printing,  November,  1915 


Contrary  Mary 


To  My  Sister 


Contents 

Chapter  I II 

In  Which  Silken  Ladies  Ascend  One  Stairway,  and 
a  Lonely  Wayfarer  Asccndi  Another  and  Comes 
Face  to  Face  with  Old  Friends. 

Chapter  II 20 

In  Which  Roie-Lcaves  and  Old  Slippers  Speed  a 
Happy  Pair;  and  in  Which  Sweet  and  Twenty 
Speaks  a  New  and  Modern  Language,  and  Gives  a 
Reason  for  Renting  a  Gentleman's  Library. 

Chapter  III 40 

In  Which  a  Lonely  Wayfarer  Becomes  Monarch  of  All 
He  Surveys  ;  and  in  Which  One  Who  Might  Have 
Been  Presented  as  the  Hero  of  this  Tale  is  Forced, 
Through  No  Fault  of  His  Own,  to  Take  His 
Chances  with  the  Rest. 

Chapter  IV 58 

In  Which  a  Little  Bronze  Boy  Grins  in  the  Dark ; 
and  in  Which  Mary  Forgets  that  There  is  Any  One 
Else  in  the  House. 

Chapter  V 70 

In  Which  Roger  Remembers  a  Face  and  Delilah  Re- 
members a  Voice  ;  and  in  Which  a  Poem  and  a  Pussy 
Cat  Play  an  Important  Part. 

Chapter  VI 86 

In  Which  Mary  Brings  Christmas  to  the  Tower  Rooms ; 
and  in  Which  Roger  Declines  a  Privilege  for  Which 
Porter  Pleads. 


2222584 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  VII        •        .        .        .        .  .98 

In  Which  Aunt  Frances  Speaks  of  Matrimony  as  a 
Fixed  Institution  and  is  Met  by  Flaming  Arguments  ; 
and  in  Which  a  Strange  Voice  Sings  Upon  the  Stairs. 

Chapter  VIII no 

In  Which  Little-Lovely  Leila  Sees  a  Picture  in 
an  Unexpected  Place ;  and  in  Which  Perfect  Faith 
Speaks  Triumphantly  Over  the  Telephone. 


Chapter  IX 

In  Which  Roger  Sallies  Forth  in  the  Service  of  a  Damsel 
in  Distress ;  and  in  Which  He  Meet*  Dragoni  Along 
the  Way. 


123 


Chapter  X 135 

In  Which  a  Scarlet  Flower  Blooms  in  the  Garden  ;  and 
in  Which  a  Light  Flares  Later  in  the  Tower. 

Chapter  XI 151 

In  Which  Roger  Writes  a  Letter ;  and  in  Which  a  Rose 
Blooms  Upon  the  Pages  of  a  Book. 

Chapter  XII 165 

In  Which  Mary  and  Roger  Have  Their  Hour ;  and  in 
Which  a  Tea-Drinking  Ends  in  What  Might  Have 
Been  a  Tragedy. 

Chapter  XIII 179 

In  Which  the  Whole  World  is  at  Sixes  and  Sevens ; 
and  in  Which  Life  is  Looked  Upon  as  a  Great 
Adventure. 

Chapter  XIV 191 

In  Which  Mary  Writes  from  the  Tower  Rooms ;  and 
in  Which  Roger  Answers  from  Among  the  Pines. 

6 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  XV 213 

In  Which  Barry  and  Leila  Go  Over  the  Hills  and  Far 
Away ;  and  in  Which  a  March  Moon  Becomes 
a  Honeymoon. 

Chapter  XVI       .......     232 

In  Which  a  Long  Name  is  Bestowed  Upon  a  Beautiful 
Baby  ;  and  in  Which  a  Letter  in  a  Long  Envelope 
Brings  Freedom  to  Mary. 

Chapter  XVII 250 

In  Which  an  Artist  Finds  What  All  His  Life  He  Has 
Been  Looking  For ;  and  in  Which  He  Speaks  of  a 
Little  Saint  in  Red. 

Chapter  XVIII 264 

In  Which  Mary  Writes  of  the  Workaday  World;  and 
in  Which  Roger  Writes  of  the  Dreams  of  a  Boy. 

Chapter  XIX 279 

In  Which  Porter  Plants  an  Evil  Seed  Which  Grows 
and  Flourishes  ;  and  in  Which  Ghosts  Rise  and  Con- 
front Mary. 

Chapter  XX 296 

In  Which  Mary  Faces  the  Winter  of  Her  Discontent ; 
and  in  Which  Delilah  Sees  Things  in  a  Crystal  Ball. 

Chapter  XXI 308 

In  Which  a  Little  Lady  in  Black  Comes  to  Washington 
to  Witness  the  Swearing-in  of  a  Gentleman  and  a 
Scholar. 

Chapter  XXII 326 

In  Which  the  Garden  Begins  to  Bloom ;  and  in  Which 
Roger  Dreams. 

7 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  XXIII 336 

In  Which  Little-Lovely  Leila  Looks  Forward  to  the 
Month  of  May  ;  and  in  Which  Barry  Rides  Into  a 
Town  With  Narrow  Streets. 

Chapter  XXIV 350 

In  Which  Roger  Comes  Once  More  to  the  Tower 
Rooms ;  and  in  Which  a  Duel  is  Fought  in  Modem 
Fashion. 

Chapter  XXV 364 

In  Which  Mary  Bids  Farewell  to  the  Old  Life ;  and 
in  Which  She  Finds  Happiness  on  the  High  Seas. 

Chapter  XXVI 386 

In  Which  a  Strange  Craft  Anchors  in  a  Sea  of  Emerald 
Light ;  and  in  Which  Mocking-Birds  Sing  in  the 
Moonlight. 


Illustrations 

Contrary  Mary Frontispiece 

She  Flashed  a  Quick  Glance  at  Him        .        .      47 

"  What  Have  I  Done  ?  " 119 

*'  You  Don't  Know  What  You  are  Doing  "       .     242 
*'  Again  I  Question  Your  Rig»'^  "...     361 


Contrary  Mary 


Contrary  Mary 


CHAPTER  I 

In  Which  Silken  Ladies  Ascend  One  Stairway^  and  a 
lonely  Wayfarer  Ascends  Another  and  Comes 
Face  to  Face  With  Old  Friends. 

THE  big  house,  standing  on  a  high  hill  which 
overlooked  the  city,  showed  in  the  moonlight 
the  grotesque  outlines  of  a  composite  architecture. 
Originally  it  had  been  a  square  substantial  edifice  of 
Colonial  simplicity.  A  later  and  less  restrained  taste 
had  aimed  at  a  castellated  effect,  and  certain  peaks 
and  turrets  had  been  added.  Three  of  these  turrets 
were  excrescences  stuck  on,  evidentiy,  with  an  idea  of 
adornment.  The  fourth  tower,  however,  rounded  out 
and  enlarged  a  room  on  the  third  floor.  This  room 
was  one  of  a  suite,  and  the  rooms  were  known  as  the 
Tower  Rooms,  and  were  held  by  those  who  had  oc- 
cupied them  to  be  the  most  desirable  in  the  bam- 
like  building. 

To-night  the  house  had  taken  on  an  unwonted  as- 
pect of  festivity.  Its  spaciousness  was  checkered  by 
golden-lighted  windows.     Delivery  wagons  and  au- 

II 


CONTRART  MART 

tomobiles  came  and  went,  some  discharging  loads  of 
deliciousness  at  the  back  door,  others  discharging 
loads  of  loveliness  at  the  front. 

Following  in  the  wake  of  one  of  the  front  door 
loads  of  fluttering  femininity  came  a  somewhat  som- 
ber pedestrian.  His  steps  lagged  a  little,  so  that 
when  the  big  door  opened,  he  was  still  at  the  foot  of 
the  terrace  which  led  up  to  it.  He  waited  until  the 
door  was  shut  before  he  again  advanced.  In  the 
glimpse  that  he  thus  had  of  the  interior,  he  was  aware 
of  a  sort  of  pink  effulgence,  and  in  that  shining 
light,  lapped  by  it,  and  borne  up,  as  it  were,  by  it 
toward  the  wide  stairway,  he  saw  slender  girls  in 
faint-hued  frocks — a  shimmering  celestial  company. 

As  he  reached  the  top  of  the,  terrace  the  door 
again  flew  open,  and  he  gave  a  somewhat  hesitat- 
ing reason  for  his  intrusion. 

"  I  was  told  to  ask  for  Miss  Ballard — Miss  Mary 
Ballard." 

It  seemed  that  he  was  expected,  and  that  the 
guardian  of  the  doorway  understood  the  difference 
between  his  business  and  that  of  the  celestial  beings 
who  had  preceded  him. 

He  was  shown  into  a  small  room  at  the  left  of  the 
entrance.  It  was  somewhat  bare,  with  a  few  law 
books  and  a  big  old-fashioned  desk.  He  judged 
that  the  room  might  have  been  put  to  office  uses, 
but  to-night  the  desk  was  heaped  with  open  boxes, 
and  odd  pieces  of  furniture  were  crowded  together, 

12 


SILKEN  LADIES 

so  that  there  was  left  only  a  small  oasis  of  cleared 
space.  On  the  one  chair  in  this  oasis,  the  somber 
gentleman  seated  himself. 

He  had  a  fancy,  as  he  sat  there  waiting,  that 
neither  he  nor  this  room  were  in  accord  with  the 
things  that  were  going  on  in  the  big  house.  Out- 
side of  the  closed  door  the  radiant  guests  were  still 
ascending  the  stairway  on  shining  wings  of  light. 
He  could  hear  the  music  of  their  laughter,  and  the 
deeper  note  of  men's  voices,  rising  and  growing 
fainter  in  a  sort  of  transcendent  harmony. 

When  the  door  was  finally  opened,  it  was  done 
quickly  and  was  shut  quickly,  and  the  girl  who  had 
entered  laughed  breathlessly  as  she  turned  to  him. 

"  Oh,  you  must  forgive  me — I've  kept  you  wait- 
ing?" 

If  their  meeting  had  been  in  Sherwood  forest,  he 
would  have  known  her  at  ,once  for  a  good  comrade  ; 
if  he  had  met  her  in  the  Garden  of  Biaucaire,  he 
would  have  known  her  at  once  for  more  than  that. 
But,  being  neither  a  hero  of  ballad  nor  of  old  romance, 
he  knew  only  that  here  was  a  girl  different  from  the 
silken  ladies  who  had  ascended  the  stairs.  Here  was 
an  air  almost  of  frank  boyishness,  a  smile  of  pleas- 
ant friendliness,  with  just  enough  of  flushing  cheek 
to  show  womanliness  and  warm  blood. 

Even  her  dress  was  different  It  was  simple  al- 
most to  the  point  of  plainness.  Its  charm  lay  in  its 
glimmering  glistening  sheen,   like  the  inside  of  a 

13 


CONTRART  MART 

shell.  Its  draperies  were  caught  up  to  show  slender 
feet  in  low-heeled  slippers.  A  quaint  cap  of  silver 
tissue  held  closely  the  waves  of  thick  fair  hair.  Her 
eyes  were  like  the  sea  in  a  storm — deep  gray  with  a 
glint  of  green. 

These  things  did  not  come  to  him  at  once.  He 
was  to  observe  them  as  she  made  her  explanation, 
and  as  he  followed  her  to  the  Tower  Rooms.  But 
first  he  had  to  set  himself  straight  with  her,  so  he 
said  :  "  I  was  sorry  to  interrupt  you.  But  you  said 
— seven  ?  " 

*'  Yes.  It  was  the  only  time  that  the  rooms  could 
be  seen.  My  sister  and  I  occupy  them — and  Con- 
stance is  to  be  married — to-night." 

This,  then,  was  the  reason  for  the  effulgence  and 
the  silken  ladies.  It  was  the  reason,  too,  for  the 
loveliness  of  her  dress. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  you  this  way."  She  pre- 
ceded him  through  a  narrow  passage  to  a  flight  of 
steps  leading  up  into  the  darkness.  "  These  stairs 
are  not  often  used,  but  we  shall  escape  the  crowds 
in  the  other  hall." 

Her  voice  was  lost  as  she  made  an  abrupt  turn, 
but,  feeling  his  way,  he  followed  her. 

Up  and  up  until  they  came  to  a  third- floor  land- 
ing, where  she  stopped  him  to  say,  "  I  must  be  sure 
no  one  is  here.     Will  you  wait  until  I  see  ?  " 

She  came  back,  presently,  to  announce  that  the 
coast  was  clear,  and  thus  they  entered  the  room 

14 


SILKEN  LADIES 

tvhich  had  been  enlarged  and  rounded  out  by  the 
fourth  tower. 

It  was  a  big  room,  ceiled  and  finished  in  dark  oak. 
The  furniture  was  roomy  and  comfortable  and  of 
worn  red  leather.  A  strong  square  table  held  a  cop- 
per lamp  with  a  low  spreading  shade.  There  was  a 
fireplace,  and  on  the  mantel  above  it  a  bust  or  two. 

But  it  was  not  these  things  which  at  once  caught 
the  attention  of  Roger  Poole. 

Lining  the  walls  were  old  books  in  stout  binding, 
new  books  in  cloth  and  fine  leather — the  poets,  the 
philosophers,  the  seers  of  all  ages.  As  his  eyes  swept 
the  shelves,  he  knew  that  here  was  the  living,  breath- 
ing collection  of  a  true  book-lover — not  a  musty,  fusty 
aggregation  brought  together  through  mere  pride  of 
intellect.  The  owner  of  this  library  had  counted  the 
heart-beats  of  the  world. 

"This  is  the  sitting-room,"  his  guide  was  telling 
him,  **  and  the  bedroom  and  bath  open  out  from  it." 
She  had  opened  a  connecting  door.  "  This  room  is^ 
awfully  torn  up.  But  we  have  just  finished  dressing 
Constance.  She  is  down-stairs  now  in  the  Sanctum. 
We'll  pack  her  trunks  to-morrow  and  send  them,  and 
then  if  you  should  care  to  take  the  rooms,  we  can  put 
back  the  bedroom  furniture  that  father  had.  He 
used  this  suite,  and  brought  his  books  up  after  mother 
died." 

He  halted  on  the  threshold  of  that  inner  room.  If 
the  old  house  below  had  seemed  filled  with  rosy 

15 


CONTRARY  MART 

effulgence,  this  was  the  heart  of  the  rose.  Two 
small  white  beds  were  side  by  side  in  an  alcovCv 
Their  covers  were  of  pink  overlaid  with  lace,  and  the 
chintz  of  the  big  couch  and  chairs  reflected  the  same 
enchanting  hue.  With  all  the  color,  however,  there 
was  the  freshness  of  simplicity.  Two  tall  glass 
candlesticks  on  the  dressing  table,  a  few  photographs 
in  silver  and  ivory  frames — these  were  the  only  orna- 
ments. 

Yet  everywhere  was  lovely  confusion — delicate 
things  were  thrown  half-way  into  open  trunks,  filmy 
fabrics  floated  from  unexpected  places,  small  slippers 
were  held  by  receptacles  never  designed  for  shoes, 
radiant  hats  bloomed  in  boxes. 

On  a  chair  lay  a  bridesmaid's  bunch  of  roses. 
This  bunch  Mary  Ballard  picked  up  as  she  passed, 
and  it  was  over  the  top  of  it  that  she  asked,  with 
some  diffidence,  "  Do  you  think  you'd  care  to  take 
the  rooms  ?  " 

Did  he  ?  Did  the  Peri  outside  the  gates  yearn  to 
enter  ?  Here  within  his  reach  was  that  from  which  he 
had  been  cut  off  for  five  years.  Five  years  in  board- 
ing-houses and  cheap  hotels,  and  now  the  chance  to 
live  again — as  he  had  once  lived  ! 

"  I  do  want  them — awfully — but  the  price  named 
in  your  letter  seems  ridiculously  small " 

"  But  you  see  it  is  all  I  shall  need,"  she  was  as  bliss- 
fully unbusinesslike  as  he.  "  I  want  to  add  a  certain 
amount  to  my  income,  so  I  ask  you  to  pay  that,"  she 

16 


SILKEN  LADIES 

smiled,  and  with  increasing  diffidence  demanded, 
"  Could  you  make  up  your  mind — now  ?  It  is  im- 
portant that  I  should  know — to-night." 

She  saw  the  question  in  his  eyes  and  answered  it. 
"  You  see — my  family  have  no  idea  that  I  am  doing 
this.  If  they  knew,  they  wouldn't  want  me  to  rent 
the  rooms — but  the  house  is  mine — I  shall  do  as  I 
please." 

She  seemed  to  fling  it  at  him,  defiantly. 

"  And  you  want  me  to  be  accessory  to  your — 
crime." 

She  gave  him  a  startled  glance.  "  Oh,  do  you 
look  at  it — that  way  ?  Please  don't.  Not  if  you  like 
them." 

For  a  moment,  only,  he  wavered.  There  was 
something  distinctly  unusual  in  acquiring  a  vine  and 
fig  tree  in  this  fashion.  But  then  her  advertisement 
had  been  unusual — it  was  that  which  had  attracted 
him,  and  had  piqued  his  interest  so  that  he  had  an- 
swered it. 

And  the  books  I  As  he  looked  back  into  the  big 
room,  the  rows  of  volumes  seemed  to  smile  at  him 
with  the  faces  of  old  friends. 

Lonely,  longing  for  a  haven  after  the  storms  which 
had  beaten  him,  what  better  could  he  find  than  this  ? 

As  for  the  family  of  Mary  Ballard,  what  had  he  to 
do  with  it  ?  His  business  was  with  Mary  Ballard 
herself,  with  her  frank  laugh  and  her  friendliness— 
and  her  arms  full  of  roses  ! 

17 


CONTRART  MART 

"  I  like  them  so  much  that  I  shall  consider  myself 
most  fortunate  to  get  them." 

"  Oh,  really  ?  "  She  hesitated  and  held  out  her 
hand  to  him.  "  You  don't  know  how  you  have 
helped  me  out — you  don't  know  how  you  have  helped 
me " 

Again  she  saw  a  question  in  his  eyes,  but  this  time 
she  did  not  answer  it.  She  turned  and  went  into  the 
other  room,  drawing  back  the  curtains  of  the  deep 
windows  of  the  round  tower. 

"  I  haven't  shown  you  the  best  of  all,"  she  said. 

Beneath  them  lay  the  lovely  city,  starred  with  its 
golden  lights.  From  east  to  west  the  shadowy 
dimness  of  the  Mall,  beyond  the  shadows,  a  line  of 
river,  silver  under  the  moonlight.  A  clock  tower  or 
two  showed  yellow  faces  ;  the  great  public  buildings 
were  clear-cut  like  cardboard. 

Roger  drew  a  deep  breath.  '*  If  there  were  noth- 
ing else,"  he  said,  *'  1  should  take  the  rooms  for 
this." 

And  now  from  the  lower  hall  came  the  clamor  of 
voices. 

"  Mary  /     Mary  I " 

**  I  must  not  keep  you,"  he  said  at  once. 
.     "  Mary  !  " 

Poised  for  flight,  she  asked,  "  Can  you  find  your 
way  down  alone  ?  I'll  go  by  the  front  stairs  and 
head  them  off." 

•'Mary 1  ^ 

l8 


SILKEN  LADIES 

With  a  last  flashing  glance  she  was  gone,  and  as 
he  gfroped  his  way  down  through  the  darkness,  it 
came  to  him  as  an  amazing  revelation  that  she  had 
taken  his  coming  as  a  thing  to  be  thankful  for,  and 
it  had  been  so  many  years  since  a  door  had  been 
flung  wide  to  welcome  him. 


19 


CHAPTER  II 

In  Which  Rose-Leaves  and  Old  Slippers  Speed  a 
Happy  Pair ;  and  in  Which  Sweet  and  Twenty 
Speaks  a  New  and  Modern  Language,  and  Gives 
a  Reason  for  Renting  a  Gentleman' s  Library . 

IN  spite  of  the  fact  that  Mary  Ballard  had  seemed 
to  Roger  Poole  like  a  white-winged  angel,  she 
was  not  looked  upon  by  the  family  as  a  beauty.  It 
was  Constance  who  was  tne  "  pretty  one,"  and  to- 
night as  she  stood  in  her  bridal  robes,  gazing  up  at 
her  sister  who  was  descending  the  stairs,  she  was 
more  than  pretty.  Her  tender  face  was  illumined  by 
an  inner  radiance.  She  was  two  years  older  than 
Mary,  but  more  slender,  and  her  coloring  was  more 
strongly  emphasized.  Her  eyes  were  blue  and  her 
hair  was  gold,  as  against  the  gray-green  and  dull 
fairness  of  Mary's  hair.  She  seemed  surrounded, 
too,  by  a  sort  of  feminine  aura,  so  that  one  knew  at 
a  glance  that  here  was  a  woman  who  would  love  her 
home,  her  husband,  her  children ;  who  would  lean 
upon  masculine  protection,  and  suffer  from  masculine 
neglect. 

Of  Mary  Ballard  these  things  could  not  be  said  at 
once.     In  spite  of  her  simplicity  and  frankness,  there 

20 


ROSE-LEAVES  AND  OLD  SLIPPERS 

was  about  her  a  baffling  atmosphere.  She  was  like 
a  still  pool  with  the  depths  as  yet  unsounded,  an  un- 
charted sea — with  its  mystery  of  undiscovered  coun- 
tries. 

The  contrast  between  the  sisters  had  never  been 
more  marked  than  when  Mary,  leaning  over  the 
stair-rail,  answered  the  breathless,  **  Dearest,  where 
have  you  been?"  with  her  calm : 

"  There's  plenty  of  time,  Constance." 

And  Constance,  soothed  as  always  by  her  sister's 
tranquillity,  repeated  Mary's  words  for  the  benefit  of 
a  ponderously  anxious  Personage  in  amber  satin. 

"  There's  plenty  of  time.  Aunt  Frances." 

That  Aunt  Frances  was  a  Personage  was  made 
apparent  by  certain  exterior  evidences.  One  knew 
it  by  the  set  of  her  fine  shoulders,  the  carriage  of  her 
head,  by  the  diamond-studded  lorgnette,  by  the 
string  of  pearls  about  her  neck,  by  the  osprey  in  her 
white  hair,  by  the  golden  buckles  on  her  shoes. 

"  It  is  five  minutes  to  eight,"  said  Aunt  Frances, 
"  and  Gordon  is  waiting  down-stairs  with  his  best 
man,  the  chorus  is  freezing  on  the  side  porch,  and 
everybody  has  arrived.  I  dont  see  why  you  are 
waiting " 

"  We  are  waiting  for  it  to  be  eight  o'clock,  Aunt 
Frances,"  said  Mary.  "  At  just  eight,  I  start  down 
in  front  of  Constance,  and  if  you  don't  hurry  you  and 
Aunt  Isabelle  won't  be  there  ahead  of  me." 

The  amber  train  slipped  and  glimmered  down  the 

21 


CONTRART  MART 

polished  steps,  and  the  golden  buckles  gleamed  an 
Mrs.  Clendenning,  panting  a  little  and  with  a  sense 
of  outrage  that  her  nervous  anxiety  of  the  preceding 
moment  had  been  for  naught,  made  her  way  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  the  guests  were  assembled. 

Aunt  Isabelle  followed,  gently  smiling.  Aunt  Isa- 
belle  was  to  Aunt  Frances  as  moonlight  unto  sun- 
light Aunt  Frances  was  married.  Aunt  Isabelle  was 
single ;  Aunt  Frances  wore  amber.  Aunt  Isabelle  sil- 
ver gray ;  Aunt  Frances  held  up  her  head  like  a 
queen,  Aunt  Isabelle  dropped  hers  deprecatingly ; 
Aunt  Frances'  quick  ears  caught  the  whispers  of  ad- 
miration that  followed  her.  Aunt  Isabelle's  ears  were 
closed  forever  to  all  the  music  of  the  universe. 

No  sooner  had  the  two  aunts  taken  their  places  to 
the  left  of  a  floral  bower  than  there  was  heard  with- 
out the  chanted  wedding  chorus,  from  a  side  door 
stepped  the  clergyman  and  the  bridegroom  and  his 
best  man  ;  then  from  the  hall  came  the  litde  procession 
with  Mary  in  the  lead  and  Constance  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  her  brother  Barry. 

They  were  much  alike,  this  brother  and  sister. 
More  alike  than  Mary  and  Constance.  Barry  had 
the  same  gold  in  his  hair,  and  blue  in  his  eyes,  and, 
while  one  dared  not  hint  it,  in  the  face  of  his  broad- 
shouldered  strength,  there  was  an  almost  feminine 
charm  in  the  grace  of  his  manner  and  the  languor  of 
his  movements. 

There  were  no  bridesmaids,  except  Mary,  but  foui 

22 


ROSE-LEAVES  AND  OLD  SLIPPERS 

pretty  girls  held  the  broad  white  ribbons  which 
marked  an  aisle  down  the  length  of  the  rooms. 
These  girls  wore  pink  with  close  caps  of  old  lace. 
Only  one  of  them  had  dark  hair,  and  it  was  the  dark- 
haired  one,  who,  standing  very  still  throughout  the 
ceremony,  with  the  ribbon  caught  up  to  her  in  lus- 
trous festoons,  never  took  her  eyes  from  Barry  Bal- 
lard's face. 

And  when,  after  the  ceremony,  the  bride  turned  to 
greet  her  friends,  the  dark-haired  girl  moved  forward 
to  where  Barry  stood,  a  little  apart  from  the  wedding 
group. 

"Doesn't  it  seem  strange?"  she  said  to  him  with 
quick-drawn  breath. 

He  smiled  down  at  her.     "What?" 

"That  a  few  words  should  make  such  a  differ- 
ence?" 

"  Yes.  A  minute  ago  she  belonged  to  us.  Now 
she's  Gordon's." 

"  And  he's  taking  her  to  England  ?  " 

"Yes.  But  not  for  long  When  he  gets  the 
branch  office  started  over  there,  they'll  come  back, 
and  he'll  take  his  father's  place  in  the  business  here, 
and  let  the  old  man  retire." 

She  was  not  listening.  "  Barry,"  she  interrupted, 
"  what  will  Mary  do  ?  She  can't  live  here  alone — 
and  she'll  miss  Constance." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Frances  has  fixed  that,"  easily  ;  "  she 
wants  Mary  to  shut  up  the  house  and  spend  the 

23 


CONTRARY  MART 

winter  in  Nice  with  herself  and  Grace — it's  a  great 
chance  for  Mary." 

"  But  what  about  you,  Barry  ?  " 

"Me?"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  again 
smiled  down  at  her.  "  I'll  find  quarters  somewhere, 
and  when  I  get  too  lonesome,  I'll  come  over  and 
talk  to  you,  Leila." 

The  rich  color  flooded  her  cheeks.  "  Do  come," 
she  said,  again  with  quick-drawn  breath,  then  like  a 
child  who  has  secured  its  coveted  sugar-plum,  she 
slipped  through  the  crowd,  and  down  into  the  din- 
ing-room, where  she  found  Mary  taking  a  last 
survey. 

"Hasn't  Aunt  Frances  done  things  beautifully ? " 
Mary  asked  ;  "  she  insisted  on  it,  Leila.  We  could 
never  have  afforded  the  orchids  and  the  roses ;  and 
the  ices  are  charming — pink  hearts  with  cupids 
shooting  at  them  with  silver  arrows " 

"  Oh,  Mary,''  the  dark-haired  girl  laid  her  flushed 
cheek  against  the  arm  of  her  taller  friend.  "  I  think 
weddings  are  wonderful." 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "  I  don't,"  she  said  after  a 
moment's  silence.  "  I  think  they're  horrid.  I  like 
Gordon  Richardson  well  enough,  except  when  ! 
think  that  he  is  stealing  Constance,  and  then  I  hate 
him." 

But  the  bride  was  coming  down,  with  all  the  mur- 
muring voices  behind  her,  and  now  the  silken  ladies 
were  descending   the    stairs    to   the    dining-room^ 

24 


ROSEr-LEAFES  AND  OLD  SLIPPERS 

which  took  up  the  whole  lower  west  wing  of  the 
house  and  opened  out  upon  an  old-fashioned  garden, 
which  to-night,  under  a  chill  October  moon,  showed 
its  rows  of  box  and  of  formal  cedars  like  sharp  shad- 
ows against  the  whiteness. 

Into  this  garden  came,  later,  Mary.  And  behind 
her  Susan  Jenks. 

Susan  Jenks  was  a  little  woman  with  gray  hair 
and  a  coffee-colored  skin.  Being  neither  black  nor 
white,  she  partook  somewhat  of  the  nature  of  both 
races.  Back  of  her  African  gentleness  was  an  almost 
Yankee  shrewdness,  and  the  firm  will  which  now  and 
then  degenerated  into  obstinacy. 

"  There  ain't  no  luck  in  a  wedding  without  rice, 
Miss  Mary.  These  paper  rose-leaf  things  that  you've 
got  in  the  bags  are  mighty  pretty,  but  how  are  you 
going  to  know  that  they  bring  good  luck  ?  " 

"  Aunt  Frances  thought  they  would  be  charm-* 
ing  and  foreign,  Susan,  and  they  look  very  real, 
floating  off  in  the  air.  You  must  stand  there  on 
the  upper  porch,  and  give  the  little  bags  to  the 
guests." 

Susan  ascended  the  terrace  steps  complainingly 
**  You  go  right  in  out  of  the  night,  Miss  Mary,"  she 
called  back,  "  an'  you  with  nothin'  on  your  bare 
neck  I " 

Mary,  tumiug,  came  face  to  face  with  Gordon's 
best  man.  Porter  Bigelow. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  impetuously,  "  I've  been  looking 

2S 


CONTRART  MART 

for  you  everywhere.  I  couldn't  keep  my  eyes  off 
you  during  the  service — you  were — heavenly." 

'Tm  not  a  bit  angelic,  Porter,"  she  told  him, 
"and  I'm  simply  freezing  out  here.  I  had  to  show 
Susan  about  the  confetti." 

He  drew  her  in  and  shut  the  door.  "  They  sent 
me  to  hunt  for  you,"  he  said.  "  Constance  wants 
you.  She's  going  up-stairs  to  change.  But  I  heard 
just  now  that  you  are  going  to  Nice.  Leila  told  me. 
Mary — you  can't  go — not  so  far  away — from  me.'* 
His  hand  was  on  her  arm. 

She  shook  it  off  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  You  haven't  a  thing  to  do  with  it,  Porter.  And 
I'm  not  going — to  Nice." 

"  But  Leila  said " 

Her  head  went  up.  It  was  a  characteristic  gesture. 
'•  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  what  any  one  says. 
I'm  not  going  to  Nice." 

Once  more  in  the  Tower  Rooms,  the  two  sisters 
were  together  for  the  last  time.  Leila  was  sent 
down  on  a  hastily  contrived  errand.  Aunt  Frances, 
arriving,  was  urged  to  go  back  and  look  after  the 
guests.  Only  Aunt  Isabelle  was  allowed  to  remain. 
She  could  be  of  use,  and  the  things  which  were  to 
be  said  she  could  not  hear. 

"  Dearest,"  Constance's  voice  had  a  break  in  it, 
"  dearest,  I  feel  so  selfish — leaving  you " 

Mary  was  kneeling  on  the  floor,  unfastening  hooks. 
"  Don't  worry,  Con.     I'll  get  along." 

9.6 


ROSE-LEAVES  AND  OLD  SLIPPERS 

"  But  you'll  have  to  bear — things — all  alone.  It 
isn't  as  if  any  one  knew,  and  you  could  talk  it 
out." 

"  I'd  rather  die  than  speak  of  it,"  fiercely,  "  and  I 
sha'n't  write  anything  to  you  about  it,  for  Gordon 
will  read  your  letters." 

"  Oh,  Mary,  he  won't." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  will,  and  you'll  want  him  to — you'll 
want  to  turn  your  heart  inside  out  for  him  to  read, 
to  say  nothing  of  your  letters." 

She  stood  up  and  put  both  of  her  hands  on  her 
sister's  shoulders.  "  But  you  mustn't  tell  him,  Con. 
No  matter  how  much  you  want  to,  it's  my  secret  and 
Barry's — promise  me.  Con " 

'*  But,  Mary,  a  wife  can't." 

"Yes,  she  can  have  secrets  from  her  husband. 
And  this  belongs  to  us,  not  to  him.  You've  mar- 
ried him,  Con,  but  we  haven't." 

Aunt  Isabelle,  gentle  Aunt  Isabelle,  shut  off  from 
the  world  of  sound,  could  not  hear  Con's  little  cry  of 
protest,  but  she  looked  up  just  in  time  to  see  the 
[jhimmering  dress  drop  to  the  floor,  and  to  see  the 
bride,  sheathed  like  a  lily  in  whiteness,  bury  her 
head  on  Mary's  shoulder. 

Aunt  Isabelle  stumbled  forward.  "  My  dear,"  she 
asked,  in  her  thin  troubled  voice,  "  what  makes  you 
cry?" 

"  It's  nothing,  Aunt  Isabelle."  Mary's  tone  was 
not  loud,  but  Aunt  Isabelle  heard  and  nodded. 

27 


CONTRART  MART 

"She's  dead  tired,  poor  dear,  and  wrought  up. 
I'll  run  and  get  the  aromatic  spirits." 

With  Aunt  Isabelle  out  of  the  way,  Mary  set  her- 
self to  repair  the  damage  she  had  done.  "I've 
made  you  cry  on  your  wedding  day,  Con,  and  I 
wanted  you  to  be  so  happy.  Oh,  tell  Gordon,  if 
you  must.  But  you'll  find  that  he  won't  look  at  it 
as  you  and  I  have  looked  at  it.  He  won't  make  the 
excuses." 

**  Oh,  yes  he  will."  Constance's  happiness  seemed 
to  come  back  to  her  suddenly  in  a  flood  of  assurance. 
"  He's  the  best  man  in  the  world,  Mary,  and  so  kind. 
It's  because  you  don't  know  him  that  you  think  as 
you  do." 

Mary  could  not  quench  the  trust  in  the  blue  eyes. 
"  Of  course  he's  good,"  she  said,  "  and  you  are  go- 
ing to  be  the  happiest  ever,  Constance." 

Then  Aunt  Isabelle  came  back  and  found  that  the 
need  for  the  aromatic  spirits  was  over,  and  together 
the  loving  hands  hurried  Constance  into  her  going 
away  gown  of  dull  blue  and  silver,  with  its  sable 
trimmed  wrap  and  hat, 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Aunt  Frances,  how  could  I 
have  faced  Gordon's  friends  in  London?"  said  Con- 
stance.    "  Am  I  all  right  now,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Lovely,  Con,  dear." 

But  it  was  Aunt  Isabelle's  hushed  voice  which 
gave  the  appropriate  phrase.  "She  looks  like  a 
bluebird — for  happiness." 

28 


ROSE-LEAVES  AND  OLD  SLIPPERS 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairway  Gordon  was  waiting 
for  his  bride — handsome  and  prosperous  as  a  bride- 
groom should  be,  with  a  dark  sleek  head  and  eager 
eyes,  and  beside  him  Porter  Bigelow,  topping  him 
by  a  head,  and  a  red  head  at  that. 

As  Mary  followed  Constance,  Porter  tucked  her 
hand  under  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  Mary,  Mary,  quite  contrary, 
Your  eyes  they  are  so  bright. 
That  the  stars  grow  pale,  as  they  tell  the  tale 
To  the  other  stars  at  night," 

he  improvised  under  his  breath.  "Oh,  Mary 
Ballard,  do  you  know  that  I  am  holding  on  to  my- 
self with  all  my  might  to  keep  from  shouting  to  the 
crowd,  '  Mary  isn't  going  away.  Mary  isn't  going 
away.' " 

«« Silly " 

"You  say  that,  but  you  don't  mean  it.  Mary, 
you  can't  be  hard-hearted  on  such  a  night  as  this. 
Say  that  I  may  stay  for  five  minutes — ten — after  the 
others  have  gone " 

They  were  out  on  the  porch  now,  and  he  had 
folded  about  her  the  wrap  which  she  had  brought 
down  with  her.  "  Of  course  you  may  stay,"  she 
said,  "but  much  good  may  it  do  you.  Aunt 
Frances  is  staying  and  General  Dick — there's  to  be 
a  family  conclave  in  the  Sanctum — but  if  you  want 
to  listen  you  may." 

29 


CONTRART  MART 

And  how  the  rose-leaves  began  to  flutter  I  Susan 
Jenks  had  handed  out  the  bags,  and  secretly,  and 
with  much  elation  had  leaned  over  the  rail  as  Con- 
stance passed  down  the  steps,  and  had  emptied  her 
own  Uttle  offering  of  rice  in  the  middle  of  the  bride's 
blue  hat  I 

It  was  Barry,  aided  and  abetted  by  Leila,  who 
brought  out  the  old  slippers.  There  were  Con- 
stance's dancing  slippers,  high-heeled  and  of 
delicate  hues,  Mary's  more  individual  low-heeled 
ones,  Barry's  outworn  pumps,  decorated  hurriedly 
by  Leila  for  the  occasion  with  lovers'  knots  of  tissue 
paper. 

And  it  was  just  as  the  bride  waved  "  Good-bye  " 
from  Gordon's  limousine  that  a  new  slipper  followed 
the  old  ones,  for  Leila,  carried  away  by  the  excite- 
ment, and  having  at  the  moment  no  other  missile  at 
hand,  reached  down,  and  plucking  off  one  of  her 
own  pink  sandals,  hurled  it  with  all  her  might  at  the 
moving  car.  It  landed  on  top,  and  Leila,  with  a 
gasp,  realized  that  it  was  gone  forever. 

''  It  serves  you  right.*  Looking  up,  she  met 
Barry's  laughing  eyes. 

She  sank  down  on  the  step.  "  And  they  were  a 
new  pair  I " 

"  Lucky  that  it's  your  birthday  next  week,"  he 
said.     "  Do  you  want  pink  ones  ?  " 

''Barry/'' 

Her     delight     was     overwhelming.      "  Heavens, 

30 


ROSE-LEAVES  AND  OLD  SLIPPERS 

child,"  he  cautioned  her,  "  don't  look  as  if  I  were  the 
grand  Mogul.  Do  you  know  I  sometimes  think' 
you  are  eight  instead  of  eighteen  ?  And  now,  if 
you'll  take  my  arm,  you  can  hippity-hop  into  the 
house.  And  I  hope  that  you'll  remember  this,  that 
if  I  give  you  pink  slippers  you  are  not  to  throw  them 
away." 

In  the  hall  they  met  Leila's  father — General 
Wilfred  Dick.  The  General  had  married,  in  late 
bachelorhood,  a  young  wife.  Leila  was  like  her 
mother  in  her  dark  sparkling  beauty  and  demure 
sweetness.  But  she  showed  at  times  the  spirit  of 
her  father — the  spirit  which  had  carried  the  General 
gallantly  through  the  Civil  War,  and  had  led  him 
after  the  war  to  make  a  success  of  the  practice  of 
law.  He  had  been  for  years  the  intimate  friend  and 
adviser  of  the  Ballards,  and  it  was  at  Mary's  request 
that  he  was  to  stay  to  share  in  the  coming  con- 
clave 

He  told  Leila  this.  "  You'll  have  to  wait,  too,"  he 
said.  "  And  now,  why  are  you  hopping  on  one  foot 
in  that  absurd  fashion  ?  " 

"  Dad,  dear,  I  lost  my  shoe " 

"  Her  very  best  pink  one,"  Barry  explained  ;  "she 
threw  it  after  the  bride,  and  now  I've  got  to  give 
her  another  pair  for  her  birthday." 

The  General's  old  eyes  brightened  as  he  surveyed 
the  young  pair.  This  was  as  it  should  be,  the  son 
of  his  old  friend  and  the  daughter  of  his  heart 

31 


CONTRART  MART 

He  tried  to  look  stern,  however.  "  Haven't  I  al« 
ways  kept  you  supplied  with  pink  shoes  and  blue 
shoes  and  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  shoes  ? "  he 
demanded.     "  And  why  should  you  tax  Barry  ?  " 

"  But,  Dad,  he  wants  to."  She  looked  eagerly  at 
Barry  for  confirmation.  *'  He  wants  to  give  them  to 
me — for  my  birthday " 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  said  Barry,  lightly.  "  If  I  didn't 
give  her  slippers,  I  should  have  to  give  her  some- 
thing else — and  far  be  it  from  me  to  know  what — 
little — lovely — Leila — wants " 

And  to  the  tune  of  his  chant,  they  hippity-hopped 
together  up  the  stairs  in  a  hunt  for  some  stray  shoe 
that  should  fit  little-lovely-Leila's  foot ! 

A  litde  later,  the  silken  ladies  having  descended 
the  stairway  for  the  last  time,  Aunt  Frances  took  her 
amber  satin  stateliness  to  the  Sanctum. 

Behind  her,  a  silver  shadow,  came  Aunt  Isabelle, 
and  bringing  up  the  rear,  General  Dick,  and  the  four 
young  people ;  Leila  in  a  pair  of  mismated  slippers, 
hippity-hopping  behind  with  Barry,  and  Porter  as- 
suring Mary  that  he  knew  he  "  hadn't  any  business 
to  butt  in  to  a  family  party,"  but  that  he  was  coming 
anyhow. 

The  Sanctum  was  the  front  room  on  the  second 
floor.  It  had  been  the  Little  Mother's  room  in  the 
days  when  she  was  still  with  them,  and  now  it  had 
been  turned  into  a  retreat  where  the  young  people 
drifted  when  they  wanted  quiet,  or  where  they  met 

32 


ROSE-LEAVES  AND  OLD  SLIPPERS 

for  consultation  and  advice.  Except  that  the  walnut 
bed  and  bureau  had  been  taken  out  nothing  had 
been  changed,  and  their  mother's  books  were  still  in 
the  low  bookcases ;  religious  books,  many  of  them, 
reflecting  the  gentle  faith  of  the  owner.  On  mantel 
and  table  and  walls  were  photographs  of  her  chil- 
dren in  long  clothes  and  short,  and  then  once  more 
in  long  ones ;  there  was  Barry  in  wide  collars  and 
knickerbockers,  and  Constance  and  Mary  in  ermine 
caps  and  capes ;  there  was  Barry  again  in  the  mili- 
tary uniform  of  his  preparatory  school ;  Constance 
in  her  graduation  frock,  and  Mary  with  her  hair  up 
for  the  first  time.  There  was  a  picture  of  their  father 
on  porcelain  in  a  blue  velvet  case,  and  another 
picture  of  him  above  the  mantel  in  an  oval  frame, 
with  one  of  the  Little  Mother's,  also  in  an  oval 
frame,  to  flank  it.  In  the  fairness  of  the  Little 
Mother  one  traced  the  fairness  of  Barry  and  Con- 
stance. But  the  fairness  and  features  of  the  father 
were  Mary's. 

Mary  had  never  looked  more  like  her  father  than 
now  when,  sitting  under  his  picture,  she  stated  her 
case.  What  she  had  to  say  she  said  simply.  But 
when  she  had  finished  there  was  the  silence  of 
astonishment. 

In  a  day,  almost  in  an  hour,  little  Mary  had  grown 
up  I  With  Constance  as  the  nominal  head  of  the 
household,  none  of  them  had  realized  that  it  was 
Mary's  mind  which  had  worked  out  the  problems  of 

33 


CONTRJRT  MART 

making  ends  meet,  and  that  it  was  Mary's  strength 
and  industry  which  had  supplemented  Susan's  wan- 
ing efforts  in  the  care  of  the  big  house. 

"  I  want  to  keep  the  house,"  Mary  repeated.  "  I 
had  to  talk  it  over  to-night,  Aunt  Frances,  because 
you  go  back  to  New  York  in  the  morning,  and  I 
couldn't  speak  of  it  before  to-night  because  I  was 
afraid  that  some  hint  of  my  plan  would  get  to  Con- 
stance and  she  would  be  troubled.  She'll  learn  it 
later,  but  I  didn't  want  her  to  have  it  on  her  mind 
now.  I  want  to  stay  here.  I've  always  lived  here, 
and  so  has  Barry — and  while  I  appreciate  your  plans 
for  me  to  go  to  Nice,  I  don't  think  it  would  be  fair 
or  right  for  me  to  leave  Barry." 

Barry,  a  little  embarrassed  to  be  brought  into  it, 
said,  "  Oh,  you  needn't  mind  about  me " 

•'  But  I  do  mind."  Mary  had  risen  and  was  speak- 
mg  earnestly.  "  I  am  sure  you  must  see  it,  Aunt 
Frances,  If  I  went  with  you,  Barry  would  be  left  to 
— drift — and  I  shouldn't  like  to  think  of  that.  Mother 
wouldn't  have  liked  it,  or  famer."  Her  voice  touched 
an  almost  shrill  note  of  protest. 

Porter  Bigelow,  sitting  unobtrusively  in  the  back- 
ground, was  moved  by  her  earnestness.  "  There's 
something  back  of  it,"  his  quick  mind  told  him  ; 
"  she  knows  about — Barry " 

But  Barry,  too,  was  on  his  feet.  "Oh,  look  here, 
Mary,"  he  was  expostulating,  "  I'm  not  going  to 
have  you  stay  at  home  and  miss  a  winter  of  good 

34 


ROSE-LEAVES  AND  OLD  SLIPPERS 

times,  just  because  I'll  have  to  eat  a  few  meals  in  a 
boarding-house.  And  I  sha'n't  have  to  eat  many. 
When  I  get  starved  for  home  cooking,  I'll  hunt  up 
my  friends.  You'll  take  me  in  now  and  then,  for 
Sunday  dinner,  won't  you,  General  ? — Leila  says  you 
will ;  and  it  isn't  as  if  you  were  never  coming  back — 
Mary." 

•'  If  we  close  the  house  now,"  Mary  said,  "  it  will 
mean  that  it  won't  be  opened  again.  You  all  know 
that."  Her  accusing  glance  rested  on  Aunt  Frances 
and  the  General.  "  You  all  think  it  ought  to  be  sold, 
but  if  we  sell  what  will  become  of  Susan  Jenks,  who 
nursed  us  and  who  nursed  mother,  and  what  shall 
we  do  with  all  the  dear  old  things  that  were  mother's 
and  father's,  and  who  will  live  in  the  dear  old  rooms?" 
She  was  struggling  for  composure.  "  Oh,  don't  you 
see  that  I — I  can't  go  ?  " 

It  was  Aunt  Frances'  crisp  voice  which  brought 
her  back  to  calmness.  "  But,  my  dear,  you  can't 
afford  to  keep  it  open.  Your  income  with  what 
Barry  earns  isn't  any  more  than  enough  to  pay  your 
running  expenses ;  there's  nothing  left  for  taxes  or 
improvements.  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  finance  you 
to  the  best  of  my  ability,  but  I  think  it  very  foolish 
:o  sink  any  more  money — here " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  sink  it.  Aunt  Frances.  Con- 
stance begged  me  to  use  her  little  part  of  our  in- 
come, but  I  wouldn't  We  sha'n't  need  it.  I've 
fixed  things  so  that  we  shall  have  money  for  the 

35 


CONTRART  MART 

taxes.     I — I  have  rented  the  Tower  Rooms,  Aunt 
Frances  1 " 

They  stared  at  her  stunned.  Even  Leila  tore  her 
adoring  eyes  from  Barry's  face,  and  fixed  them  on 
the  girl  who  made  this  astounding  statement. 

*'  Mary,"  Aunt  Frances  gasped,  "  do  you  mean 
that  you  are  going  to  take — lodgers ?  " 

"  Only  one,  Aunt  Frances,  And  he's  perfectly  re- 
spectable. I  advertised  and  he  answered,  and  he 
gave  me  a  bank  reference." 

*'  He.     Mary,  is  it  a  man  ?  " 

Mary  nodded.  "Of  course.  I  should  hate  to 
have  a  woman  fussing  around.  And  I  set  the  rent 
for  the  suite  at  exactly  the  amount  I  shall  need  to 
take  me  through  this  year,  and  he  was  satisfied." 

She  turned  and  picked  up  a  printed  slip  from  the 
table. 

"This  is  the  way  I  wrote  my  ad,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  had  twenty-seven  answers.  And  this  seemed  the 
best " 

"  Twenty-seven  ! "  Aunt  Frances  he/d  out  her 
hand.  "  Will  you  let  me  see  what  you  wrote  to  get 
such  remarkable  results  ?  " 

Mary  handed  it  to  her,  and  through  the  diamond- 
studded  lorgnette  Aunt  Frances  read  : 

"  To  let :  Suite  of  two  rooms  and  bath  ;  with  Gen- 
tleman's Library.  House  on  top  of  a  high  hill  which 
overlooks  the  city.  Exceptional  advantages  for  a 
student  or  scholar." 

36 


ROSE-LEAVES  AND  OLD  SLIPPERS 

*•  I  consider,"  said  Mary,  as  Aunt  Frances  paused, 
"  that  the  Gentleman's  Library  part  was  an  inspira- 
tion.    It  was  the  bait  at  which  they  all  nibbled." 

The  General  chuckled,  "  She'll  do.  Let  her  have 
her  own  way,  Frances.  She's  got  a  head  on  her 
like  a  man's." 

Aunt  Frances  turned  on  him.  "  Mary  speaks 
what  is  to  me  a  rather  new  language  of  independence. 
And  she  can't  stay  here  alone.  She  canU.  It  isn't 
proper — without  an  older  woman  in  the  house." 

"  But  I  want  an  older  woman.  Oh,  Aunt  Frances, 
please,  may  I  have  Aunt  Isabelle  ?  " 

She  had  raised  her  voice  so  that  Aunt  Isabelle 
caught  the  name.  "  What  does  she  want,  Frances  ?  " 
asked  the  deaf  woman  ;  "  what  does  she  want  ?  " 

"She  wants  you  to  live  with  her — here."  Aunt 
Frances  was  thinking  rapidly ;  it  wasn't  such  a  bad 
plan.  It  was  always  a  problem  to  take  Isabelle  when 
she  and  her  daughter  traveled.  And  if  they  left  her 
in  New  York  there  was  always  the  haunting  fear  that 
she  might  be  ill,  or  that  they  might  be  criticized  for 
leaving  her. 

"  Mary  wants  you  to  live  with  her,"  she  said. 
"While  we  are  abroad,  would  you  like  it — a  winter 
in  Washington  ?  " 

Aunt  Isabelle's  gentle  face  was  illumined.  "  Do 
you  really  wan^  me,  my  dear  ?  "  she  asked  in  her 
hushed  voice.  It  had  been  a  long  time  since  Aunt 
Isabelle  had  felt  that  she  was  wanted  anywhere.     It 

37 


CONTRART  MART 

seemed  to  her  that  since  the  illness  which  had  sent  her 
into  a  world  of  silence,  that  her  presence  had  been 
endured,  not  coveted. 

Mary  came  over  and  put  her  arms  about  her. 
"  Will  you,  Aunt  Isabelle  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  shall 
miss  Constance  so,  and  it  would  almost  be  like  hav- 
ing mother  to  have — you " 

No  one  knew  how  madly  the  hungry  heart  was 
beating  under  the  silver-gray  gown.  Aunt  Isabelle 
was  only  forty-eight,  twelve  years  younger  than  her 
sister  Frances,  but  she  had  faded  and  drooped,  while 
Frances  had  stood  up  like  a  strong  flower  on  its 
stem.  And  the  little  faded  drooping  lady  yearned 
for  tenderness,  was  starved  for  it,  and  here  was  Mary 
in  her  youth  and  beauty,  promising  it. 

*•  I  want  you  so  much,  and  Barry  wants  you — and 
Susan  Jenks " 

She  was  laughing  tremulously,  and  Aunt  Isabelle 
laughed  too,  holding  on  to  herself,  so  that  she  might 
not  show  in  face  or  gesture  the  wildness  of  her  joy. 

"  You  won't  mind,  will  you,  Frances  ?  "  she  asked. 

Aunt  Frances  rose  and  shook  out  her  amber  skirts. 
"  I  shall  of  course  be  much  disappointed,"  she  pitched 
her  voice  high  and  spoke  with  chill  stateliness,  "  I 
shall  be  very  much  disappointed  that  neither  you  nor 
Mary  will  be  with  us  for  the  winter.  And  I  shall 
have  to  cross  alone.  But  Grace  can  meet  me  in 
London.  She's  going  there  to  see  Constance,  and  I 
shall  stay  for  a  while  and  start  the  young  people 

38 


ROSE-LEAVES  AND  OLD  SLIPPERS 

socially.  I  should  think  you'd  want  to  see  Con- 
stance, Mary." 

Mary  drew  a  quick  breath.  "  I  do  want  to  see  her 
— but  I  have  to  think  about  Barry — and  for  this 
winter,  at  least,  my  place — is  here." 

Then  from  the  back  of  the  room  spoke  Porter 
Bigelow. 

"  What's  the  name  of  your  lodger  ?  " 

"  Roger  Poole." 

"  There  are  Pooles  in  Gramercy  Park,"  said  Aunt 
Frances.     "  I  wonder  if  he's  one  of  them." 

Mary  shook  her  head.     "  He's  from  the  South." 

"  I  should  think,"  said  Porter,  slowly,  "  that  you'd 
want  to  know  something  of  him  besides  his  bank 
reference  before  you  took  him  into  your  house." 

"  Why  ?  "  Mary  demanded. 

"  Because  he  might  be — a  thief,  or  a  rascal," 
Porter  spoke  hotly. 

Over  the  heads  of  the  others  their  eyes  met. 
"  He  is  neither,"  said  Mary.  "  I  know  a  gentleman 
when  I  see  one,  Porter." 

Then  the  temper  of  the  redhead  flamed.  **  Oh, 
do  you  ?  Well,  for  my  part  I  wish  that  you  were 
going  to  Nice,  Mary." 


39 


CHAPTER  III 

Jn  Which  a  Lonely  Wayfarer  Becomes  Monarch  of 
All  He  Surveys ;  and  in  Which  One  Who  Might 
Have  Been  Prese^ited  as  the  Hero  of  This  Tale  is 
Forced,  Through  No  Fault  of  His  Own,  to  Take 
His  Chances  With  the  Rest. 

WHEN  Roger  Poole  came  a  week  later  to  the 
big  house  on  the  hill,  it  was  on  a  rainy  day. 
He  carried  his  own  bag,  and  was  let  in  at  the  lower 
door  by  Susan  Jenks. 

Her  smiling  brown  face  gave  him  at  once  a  sense 
of  homeyness.  She  led  the  way  through  the  wide  hall 
and  up  the  front  stairs,  crisp  and  competent  in  her 
big  white  apron  and  black  gown. 

As  he  followed  her,  Roger  was  aware  that  the 
house  had  lost  its  effulgence.  The  flowers  were 
gone,  and  the  radiance,  and  the  stairs  that  the  silken 
ladies  had  once  ascended  showed,  at  closer  range, 
certain  signs  of  shabbiness.  The  carpet  was  old  and 
mended.  There  was  a  chilliness  about  the  atmos- 
phere, as  if  the  fire,  too,  needed  mending. 

But  when  Susan  Jenks  opened  the  door  of  the 
Tower  Room,  he  was  met  by  warmth  and  bright- 
ness. Here  was  the  light  of  leaping  flames  and  of 
a  low-shaded  lamp.     On  the  table  beside  the  lamp 

40 


A  LONELY  WAYFARER 

was  a  pot  of  pink  hyacinths,  and  their  fragrance 
made  the  air  sweet.  The  inner  room  was  no  longer 
a  rosy  bower,  but  a  man's  retreat,  with  its  substantial 
furniture,  its  simplicity,  its  absence  of  non-essentials. 
In  this  room  Roger  set  down  his  bag,  and  Susan 
Jenks,  hanging  big  towels  and  little  ones  in  the  bath- 
room, drawing  the  curtains,  and  coaxing  the  fire, 
flitted  cozily  back  and  forth  for  a  few  minutes  and 
then  withdrew. 

It  was  then  that  Roger  surveyed  his  domain.  He 
was  monarch  of  all  of  it.  The  big  chair  was  his  to 
rest  in,  the  fire  was  his,  the  low  lamp,  all  the  old 
friends  in  the  bookcases  ! 

He  went  again  into  the  inner  room.  The  glass 
candlesticks  were  gone  and  the  photographs  in  their 
silver  and  ivory  frames,  but  over  the  mantel  there 
was  a  Corot  print  with  forest  vistas,  and  another 
above  his  little  bedside  table.  On  the  table  was  a 
small  electric  lamp  with  a  green  shade,  a  new  maga- 
zine, and  a  little  old  bulging  Bible  with  a  limp  leather 
binding. 

As  he  stood  looking  down  at  the  little  table,  he  was 
thrilled  by  the  sense  of  safety  after  a  storm.  Out- 
side was  the  world  with  its  harsh  judgments.  Out- 
side was  the  rain  and  the  beating  wind.  Within  were 
these  signs  of  a  heart-warming  hospitality.  Here 
was  no  bleak  cleanliness,  no  perfunctory  arrange- 
ment, but  a  place  prepared  as  for  an  honored  guest 

Down-stairs  Mary  was  explaining  to  Aunt  Isabelle. 

i.1 


'  CONTRART  MART 

"I'll  have  Susan  Jenks  take  some  coffee  to  him. 
He's  to  get  his  dinners  in  town,  and  Susan  will  serve 
his  breakfast  in  his  room.  But  I  thought  the  coffee 
tonight  after  the  rain — might  be  comfortable." 

The  two  women  were  in  the  dining-room.  The 
table  had  been  set  for  three,  but  Barry  had  not  come. 

The  dinner  had  been  a  simple  affair — an  unfash- 
ionably  nourishing  soup,  a  broiled  fish,  a  salad  and 
now  the  coffee.  Thus  did  Mary  and  Susan  Jenks 
make  income  and  expenses  meet.  Susan's  good 
cooking,  supplementing  Mary's  gastronomic  dis- 
crimination, made  a  feast  of  the  simple  fare. 

"  What's  his  business,  my  dear?  " 

"  Mr.  Poole's  ?  He's  in  the  Treasury.  But  I 
think  he's  studying  something.  He  seemed  to  be  so 
eager  for  the  books " 

"  Your  father's  books  ?  " 

**  Yes.  I  left  them  all  up  there.  I  even  left 
father's  old  Bible.  Somehow  I  felt  that  if  any  one 
was  tired  or  lonely  that  the  old  Bible  would  open  at 
the  right  page." 

"  Your  father  was  often  lonely  ?  " 

"  Yes.  After  mother's  death.  And  he  worked  too 
hard,  and  things  went  wrong  with  his  business.  I 
used  to  slip  up  to  his  bedroom  sometimes  in  the  last 
days,  and  there  he'd  be  with  the  old  Bible  on  his 
knee,  and  mother's  picture  in  his  hand."  Mary's 
eyes  were  wet. 

"  He  loved  your  mother  and  missed  her." 

42 


A  LONELY  WAYFARER 

**  It  was  more  than  that.  He  was  afraid  of  the 
future  for  Constance  and  me.  He  was  afraid  of  the 
future  for — Barry " 

Susan  Jenks,  carrying  a  mahogany  tray  on  which 
was  a  slender  silver  coffee-pot  flanked  by  a  dish  of 
cheese  and  toasted  biscuit,  asked  as  she  went  through 
the  room  :  "  Shall  I  save  any  dinner  for  Mr. 
Barry  ?  " 

"  He'll  be  here,"  Mary  said.  "  Porter  Bigelow  is 
taking  us  to  the  theater,  and  Barry's  to  make  the 
fourth." 

Barry  was  often  late,  but  to-night  it  was  half-past 
seven  when  he  came  rushing  in. 

"  I  don't  want  anything  to  eat,"  he  said,  stopping 
at  the  door  of  the  dining-room  where  Mary  and  Aunt 
Isabelle  still  waited.  "  I  had  tea  down-town  with 
General  Dick  and  Leila's  crowd.  And  we  danced. 
There  was  a  girl  from  New  York,  and  she  was  a  little 
queen." 

Mary  smiled  at  him.  To  Aunt  Isabelle's  quick 
eyes  it  seemed  to  be  a  smile  of  relief.  "  Oh,  then 
you  were  with  the  General  and  Leila,"  she  said. 

"  Yes.     Where  did  you  think  I  was  ?  " 

"  Nowhere,"  flushing. 

He  started  up-stairs  and  then  came  back.  '*  I  wish 
you'd  give  me  credit  for  being  able  to  keep  a  prom- 
ise, Mary.     You  know  what  I  told  Con " 

"It    wasn't    that    I    didn't    believe '     Mary 

crossed  the  dining-room  and  stood  in  the  door. 

43 


CONTRART  MART 

*•  Yes,  it  was.  You  thought  I  was  with  the  old 
crowd.  I  might  as  well  go  with  them  as  to  have  you 
always  thinking  it." 

"  I'm  not  always  thinking  it." 

"  Yes,  you  are,  too,"  hotly. 

"  Barry — please " 

He  stood  uneasily  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  "  Yom 
can't  understand  how  I  feel.     If  you  were  a  boy " 

She  caught  him  up.  *'  If  I  were  a  boy  ?  Barry, 
if  I  were  a  boy  I'd  make  the  world  move.  Oh,  you 
men,  you  have  things  all  your  own  way,  and  you  let 
it  stand  still " 

She  had  raised  her  voice,  and  her  words  floating 
up  and  up  reached  the  ears  of  Roger  Poole,  who  ap- 
peared at  the  top  of  the  stairway. 

There  was  a  moment's  startled  silence,  then  Mary 
spoke. 

"  Barry,  it  is  Mr.  Poole.  You  don't  know  each 
other,  do  you  ? '' 

The  two  men,  one  going  up  the  stairway,  the  other 
coming  down,  met  and  shook  hands.  Then  Barry 
muttered  something  about  having  to  run  away  and 
dress,  and  Roger  and  Mary  were  left  alone. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  they  had  seen  each  other 
since  the  night  of  the  wedding.  They  had  arranged 
everything  by  telephone,  and  on  the  second  short 
visit  that  Roger  had  made  to  his  rooms,  Susan  Jenks 
had  looked  after  him. 

It    seemed  to  Roger  now  that,  like  the  house, 

44 


A  LONELY  WAYFARER 

Mary  had  taken  on  a  new  and  less  radiant  aspect 
She  looked  pale  and  tired.  Her  dress  of  white  with 
its  narrow  edge  of  dark  fur  made  her  taller  and 
older.  Her  fair  waved  hair  was  parted  at  the  side 
and  dressed  compactly  without  ornament  or  ribbon. 
He  was  again,  however,  impressed  by  the  almost 
frank  boyishness  of  her  manner  as  she  said  : 

"  I  want  you  to  meet  Aunt  Isabelle.  She  can't 
hear  very  well,  so  you'll  have  to  raise  your  voice." 

As  they  went  in  together,  Mary  was  forced  to 
readjust  certain  opinions  which  she  had  formed 
of  her  lodger.  The  other  night  he  had  been  di- 
vorced from  the  dapper  youths  of  her  own  set  by 
his  lack  of  up-to-dateness,  his  melancholy,  his  air  of 
mystery. 

But  to-night  he  wore  a  loose  coat  which  she  recog- 
nized at  once  as  good  style.  His  dark  hair  which 
had  hung  in  an  untidy  lock  was  brushed  back  as 
smoothly  and  as  sleekly  as  Gordon  Richardson's. 
His  dark  eyes  had  a  waked-up  look.  And  there  was 
a  hint  of  color  in  his  clean-shaven  olive  cheeks. 

"  I  came  down,"  he  told  her  as  he  walked  beside 
her,  "  to  thank  you  for  the  coffee,  for  the  hyacinths 
for  the  fire,  for  the — welcome  that  my  room  gave 
me." 

"  Oh,  did  you  like  it  ?  We  were  very  busy  up 
there  all  the  morning.  Aunt  Isabelle  and  I  and 
Susan  Jenks." 

"  I   felt  like   thanking   Susan  Jenks  for  the  big 

45 


CONTRART  MART 

bath  towels ;  they  seemed  to  add  the  final  perfect 
touch." 

She  laughed  and  repeated  his  remark  to  Aunt 
Isabelle. 

"  Think  of  his  being  grateful  for  bath  towels,  Aunt 
Isabelle." 

After  his  presentation  to  Aunt  Isabelle,  he  said, 
smiling : 

"  And  there  was  another  touch — the  big  gray 
pussy  cat  She  was  in  the  window-seat,  and  when 
I  sat  down  to  look  at  the  lights,  she  tucked  her  head 
under  my  hand  and  sang  to  me." 

"  Pittiwitz  ?  Oh,  Aunt  Isabelle,  we  left  Pittiwitz 
up  there.  She  claims  your  room  as  hers,"  she  ex- 
plained to  Roger.  '•  We've  had  her  for  years.  And 
she  was  always  there  with  father,  and  then  with  Con- 
stance and  me.  If  she's  a  bother,  just  put  her  on  the 
back  stairs  and  she  will  come  down." 

"  But  she  isn't  a  bother.  It  is  very  pleasant  to 
have  something  alive  to  bear  me  company." 

The  moment  that  his  remark  was  made  he  was 
afraid  that  she  might  interpret  it  as  a  plea  tor  com- 
panionship.     And    he    had    no    right What 

earthly  right  had  he  to  expect  to  enter  this  charmed 
circle  ? 

Susan  Jenks  came  in  with  her  arms  full  of  wraps 
*•  Mr.  Porter's  coming,"  she  said,  "  and  if  s  eight 
o'clock  now  " 

'We  are  gomg  out "     Mary  was  interested 

46 


A  LONELY  WAYFARER 

to  note  that  her  lodger  had  taken  Aunt  Isabelle's 
wrap,  and  was  putting  her  into  it  without  self-con- 
sciousness. 

Her  own  wrap  was  of  a  shimmering  gray-green 
velvet  which  matched  her  eyes,  and  there  was  a  col- 
lar of  dark  fur. 

"  It's  a  pretty  thing,"  Roger  said,  as  he  held  it  for 
her.     "  It's  like  the  sea  in  a  mist." 

She  flashed  a  quick  glance  at  him.  "  I  like  that," 
she  said  in  her  straightforward  way.  "  It  is  lovely. 
Aunt  Frances  brought  it  to  me  last  year  from 
Paris.  Whenever  you  see  me  wear  anything  that  is 
particularly  nice,  you'll  know  that  it  came  from  Aunt 
Frances — Aunt  Isabelle's  sister.  She's  the  rich  mem- 
ber of  the  family.  And  all  the  rest  of  us  are  as  poor 
as  poverty." 

Outside  a  motor  horn  brayed.  Then  Porter 
Bigelow  came  in — a  perfectly  put  together  young 
man,  groomed,  tailored,  outfitted  according  to  the 
mode. 

"  Are  you  ready,  Contrary  Mary  ?  "  he  said,  then 
saw  Roger  and  stopped. 

Porter  was  a  gentleman,  so  his  manner  to  Roger 
Poole  showed  no  hint  of  what  he  thought  of  lodgers 
in  general,  and  this  one  in  particular.  He  shook 
hands  and  said  a  few  pleasant  and  perfunctory 
things  Personally  he  thought  the  man  looked  down 
and  out.  But  no  one  could  tell  what  Mary  might 
think      Mary's  standards  were  those  of  the  dreamer 

^7 


CONTRART  MART 

mnd  the  star  gazer.  What  she  was  seeking  she 
would  never  find  in  a  Mere  Man.  The  danger  lay, 
however,  in  the  fact  that  she  might  mistakenly  hang 
her  affections  about  the  neck  of  some  earth-bound 
Object  and  call  it  an  Ideal. 

As  for  himself,  in  spite  of  his  Buff-Orpington  crest, 
and  his  cock-o'-the-walk  manner,  Porter  was,  as  far  as 
Mary  was  concerned,  saturated  with  humility.  He 
knew  that  his  money,  his  family's  social  eminence 
were  as  nothing  in  her  eyes.  If  underneath  the 
weight  of  these  things  Mary  could  find  enough  of  a 
man  in  him  to  love  that  could  be  his  only  hope. 
And  that  hope  had  held  him  for  years  to  certain 
rather  sedate  ambitions,  and  had  given  him  moral 
standards  which  had  delighted  his  mother  and  had 
puzzled  his  father. 

"  Whatever  I  am  as  a  man,  you've  made  me,"  he 
said  to  Mary  two  hours  later,  in  the  intermission  be- 
tween the  second  and  third  acts  of  the  musical 
comedy,  which,  for  a  time,  had  claimed  their  atten- 
tion. Aunt  Isabelle,  in  front  of  the  box,  was  smil- 
ing gently,  happy  in  the  golden  light  and  the  near- 
ness  of  the  music.  Barry  was  visiting  Leila  and 
the  General  who  were  just  below,  in  orchestra 
chairs. 

"  Whatever  I  am  as  a  man,  you've  made  me," 
Porter  repeated,  "  and  now,  if  you'll  only  let  me  take 
care  of  you " 

Hitherto,    Mary    had     treated    his    love-making 

48 


SHE    FLASHED    A    QUICK    GLANCE    AT    HIM 


A  LONELY  WATFAREK 

lightly,  but  to-night  she  turned  upon  him  her  troubled 
eyes.  "  Porter,  you  know  I  can't.  But  there  are 
times  when  I  wish — I  could " 

"  Then  why  not  ?  " 

She  stopped  him  with  a  gesture.  "  It  wouldn't  be 
right.  I'm  simply  feeling  lonely  and  lost  because 
Constance  is  so  far  away.  But  that  isn't  any  reason 
for  marrying  you.  You  deserve  a  woman  who  cares, 
who  really  cares,  heart  and  soul.  And  I  can't,  dear 
boy." 

"  I  was  a  fool  to  think  you  might,"  savagely,  "a 
man  with  a  red  head  is  always  a  joke." 

**  As  if  that  had  anything  to  do  with  it." 

"  But  it  has,  Mary.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do 
that  when  I  was  a  youngster  I  was  always  Reddy 
Bigelow  to  our  crowd — Reddy  Bigelow  with  a 
carrot-head  and  freckles.  If  I  had  been  poor  and 
common,  life  wouldn't  have  been  worth  living.  But 
mother's  family  and  Dad's  money  fixed  that  for  me. 
And  I  had  an  allowance  big  enough  to  supply  the 
neighborhood  with  sweets.  You  were  a  little  thing, 
but  you  were  sorry  for  me,  and  I  didn't  have  to  buy 
you.  But  I'd  buy  you  now — with  a  house  in  town 
and  a  country  house,  and  motor  cars  and  lovely 
clothes — if  I  thought  it  would  do  any  good, 
Mary.  " 

"  You  wouldn't  want  me  that  way.  Porter." 

"  I  want  you — any  way." 

He  stopped  as  the  curtain  went  up,  and  darkness 

49 


CONTRART  MART 

descended.     But  presently  out  of  the  darkness  came 
his  whisper,  "  I  want  you — any  way." 

They  had  supper  after  the  play,  Leila  and  the 
General  joining  them  at  Porter's  compelling  invita-' 
tion. 

Pending  the  serving  of  the  supper,  Barry  detained 
Leila  for  a  moment  in  a  palm-screened  corner  of  the 
sumptuous  corridor. 

"  That  girl  from  New  York,  Leila — Miss  Jelifie  ? 
What  is  her  first  name  ?  " 

"  Delilah." 

"  It  isn't." 

Leila's  light  laughter  mocked  him.  "  Yes,  it  is, 
Barry.  She  calls  herself  Lilah  and  pronounces  it  as 
I  do  mme.     But  she  signs  her  cheques  De-lilah." 

Barry  recovered.     *'  Where  did  you  meet  her  ?  " 

"  At  school.  Her  father's  in  Congress.  They  are 
coming  to  us  to-morrow.  Dad  has  asked  me  to  invite 
them  as  house  guests  until  they  find  an  apartment." 

"  Well,  she's  dazzling." 

Leila  flamed.  "  I  don't  see  how  you  can  like — 
her  kind " 

"  Little  lady,"  he  admonished,  "  you're  jealous.  I 
danced  four  dances  with  her,  and  only  one  with  your 
new  pink  slippers." 

She  stuck  out  a  small  foot.  "  They're  lovely, 
Barry,"  she  said,  repentantly,  "  and  I  haven't  thanked 
you." 

50 


A  LONELY  WAYFARER 

"  Why  should  you  ?  Just  look  pleasant,  please, 
I've  had  enough  scolding  for  one  day." 

"Who  scolded?" 

"  Mary." 

Leila  glanced  into  the  dining-room,  where,  in  her 
slim  fairness,  Mary  was  like  a  pale  lily,  among  all 
the  tulip  women,  and  poppy  women,  and  orchid 
women,  and  night-shade  women  of  the  social  garden. 

•'  If  Mary  scolded  you,  you  deserved  it,"  she  said, 
loyally. 

"  You  too  ?  Leila,  if  you  don't  stick  to  me,  I 
might  as  well  give  up." 

His  face  was  moody,  brooding.  She  forgot  the 
Delilah-dancer  of  the  afternoon,  forgot  everything 
except  that  this  wonderful  man-creature  was  in 
trouble. 

"  Barry,"  she  said,  simply,  like  a  child,  "  I'll  stick 
to  you  until  I — die." 

He  looked  down  into  the  adoring  eyes.  "  I  be- 
lieve you  would,  Leila,"  he  said,  with  a  boyish  catch 
in  his  voice ;  "  you're  the  dearest  thing  on  God's  great 
earth  ! " 

The  chilled  fruit  was  already  on  the  table  when 
they  went  in,  and  it  was  followed  by  a  chafing  dish 
over  which  the  General  presided.  Red-faced  and 
rapturous,  he  seasoned  and  stirred,  and  as  the  result 
of  his  wizardry  there  was  placed  before  them  presently 
such  plates  of  Creole  crab  as  could  not  be  equaled 
north  of  New  Orleans. 

5^ 


CONTRART  MART 

**  To  cook,"  said  the  General,  settling  himself  back 
m  his  chair  and  beaming  at  Mary  who  was  beside 
him,  *  one  must  be  a  poet — to  me  there  is  more  in 
that  dish  than  merely  something  to  eat.  There's 
color — the  red  of  tomatoes,  the  green  of  the  peppers, 
the  pale  ivory  of  mushrooms,  the  snow  white  of  the 
crab— there's  atmosphere — aroma." 

"The  difference,"  Mary  told  him,  smihng,  "be- 
tween your  cooking  and  Susan  Jenks'  is  the  differ- 
ence between  an  epic — and  a  nursery  rhyme. 
They're  both  good,  but  Susan's  is  unpremeditated 
art." 

*'  I  take  off  my  hat  to  Susan  Jenks,"  said  the  Gen- 
eral— "when  her  poetry  expresses  itself  in  waffles 
and  fried  chicken." 

Mary  was  devoting  herself  to  the  General.  Porter 
Bigelow  who  was  on  the  other  side  of  her,  was  devot- 
ing himself  to  Aunt  Isabelle. 

Aunt  Isabelle  was  serenely  content  in  her  new 
office  of  chaperone. 

"I  can  hear  so  much  better  in  a  crowd,''  she  said, 
'"and  then  there's  so  much  to  see." 

"And  this  is  the  time  for  the  celebrities,"  said 
Porter,  and  wrote  on  the  comer  of  the  supp)er  card 
the  name  of  a  famous  Russian  countess  at  the  table 
next  to  them.  Beyond  was  the  Speaker  of  the 
House ;  the  British  Ambassador  with  his  fair  com- 
pany of  ladies ;  the  Spanish  Ambassador  at  a  table 
of  darker  beauties. 

52 


A  LONELY  WAYFARER 

Mary,  listening  to  Porter's  pleasant  voice,  was 
constrained  to  admit  that  he  could  be  charming. 
As  for  the  freckles  and  "  carrot-head,"  they  had  been 
succeeded  by  a  fine  if  somewhat  florid  complexion, 
and  the  curled  thickness  of  his  brilliant  crown  gave 
to  his  head  an  almost  classic  beauty. 

As  she  studied  him,  his  eyes  met  hers,  and  he 
surprised  her  by  a  quick  smile  of  understanding. 

"  Oh,  Contrary  Mary,"  he  murmured,  so  that  the 
rest  could  not  hear,  "  what  do  you  think  of  me  ?  " 

She  found  herself  blushing,  "  Porter^ 

"You  were  weighing  me  in  the  balance?  Red 
head  against  my  lovely  disposition  ?  " 

Before  she  could  answer,  he  had  turned  back  to 
Aunt  Isabelle,  leaving  Mary  with  her  cheeks  hot. 

After  supper,  the  young  host  insisted  that  Leila 
and  the  General  should  go  home  in  his  limousine 
with  Barry  and  Aunt  Isabelle. 

•*  Mary  and  I  will  follow  in  a  taxi,"  he  said  in  the 
face  of  their  protests. 

"  Young  man,"  demanded  the  twinkling  General, 
"  if  I  accept,  will  you  look  upon  me  in  the  light  of 
an  incumbrance  or  a  benefactor?" 

"  A  benefactor,  sir,"  said  Porter,  promptly,  and 
that  settled  it. 

"  And  now,"  said  Porter,  as,  having  seen  the  rest 
of  the  party  off,  he  took  his  seat  beside  the  slim 
figure  in  the  green  velvet  wrap,  "  now  I  am  going  to 
bave  it  out  with  you." 

53 


CONTRART  MART 

"  But— Porter  !  " 

"I've  a  lot  to  say.  And  we  are  going  to  ride 
around  the  Speedway  while  I  say  it."' 

"  But — it's  raining." 

"  All  the  better.  It  will  be  we  two  and  the  world 
away,  Mary." 

"  And  there  isn't  anything  to  say." 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  is — oodles." 

"And  Aunt  Isabelle  will  be  worried." 

He  drew  the  rug  up  around  her  and  settled  back 
as  placidly  as  if  the  hands  on  the  moon  face  of  the 
clock  on  the  post-office  tower  were  not  pointing  to 
midnight.  "  Aunt  Isabelle  has  been  told,"  he  in- 
formed her,  "  that  you  may  be  a  bit  late.  I  wrote 
it  on  the  supper  card,  and  she  read  it — and 
smiled." 

He  waited  in  silence  until  they  had  left  the 
avenue,  and  were  on  the  driveway  back  o^  the 
Treasury  which  leads  toward  the  river. 

"  Porter,  this  is  a  wild  thing  to  do." 

"  I'm  in  a  wild  mood — a  mood  that  fits  in  with  the 
rain  and  wind,  Mary.  I'm  in  such  a  mood  that  if 
the  times  were  different  and  the  age  more  romantic, 
I  would  pick  you  up  and  put  you  on  my  champing 
steed  and  carry  you  off  to  my  castle  " 

He  laughed,  and  for  the  moment  she  was  thrilled 
by  his  masterfulness.  "  But,  alas,  my  steed  is  a  taxi 
— the  age  is  prosaic — and  you — I'm  afraid  of  you, 
Contrary  Mary." 

54 


A  LONELY  WAYFARER 

They  were  on  the  Speedway  now,  faintly  il- 
lumined, showing  a  row  of  waving  willow  trees, 
spectrally  outlined  against  a  background  of  gray 
water. 

"  I'm  afraid  of  you.  I  have  always  been.  Even 
when  you  were  only  ten  and  I  was  fifteen.  I  would 
shake  in  my  shoes  when  you  looked  at  me,  Mary . 
you  were  the  only  one  then — you  are  the  only  one 
— now." 

Her  hand  lay  on  the  outside  of  the  rug.  He  put 
his  own  over  it. 

"Ever  since  you  said  to-night  that  you  didn't 
care — there's  been  something  singing — in  my  brain, 
and  it  has  said,  *  make  her  care,  make  her  care.' 
And  I'm  going  to  do  it.  I'm  not  going  to  trouble 
you  or  worry  you  with  it — and  I'm  going  to  take 
my  chances  with  the  rest.  But  in  the  end  I'm  going 
to — win." 

"  There  aren't  any  others." 

"  If  there  aren't  there  will  be.  You've  kept  your- 
self protected  so  far  by  that  little  independent 
manner  of  yours,  which  scares  men  oflf.  But  some 
day  a  man  will  come  who  won't  be  scared — ^and 
then  it  will  be  a  fight  to  the  finish  between  him — 
and  me." 

'  Oh,  Porter,  I  don't  want  to  think  of  marrying — 
not  for  ten  million  years." 

"  And  yet,"  he  said  prophetically,  "  if  to-morrow 
you  should  meet  some  man  who  could  make  you 

.55 


CONTRART  MART 

think  he  was  the  Only  One,  you'd  marry  him  in  the 
face  of  all  the  world." 

"  No  man  of  that  kind  will  ever  come." 

"What  kind?" 

"  That  will  make  me  willing  to  lose  the  world." 

The  rain  was  beating  against  the  windows  of  the 
cab. 

"  Porter,  please.    We  must  go  home." 

"  Not  unless  you'll  promise  to  let  me  prove  it — to 
let  me  show  that  I'm  a  man — not  a — boy." 

*•  You're  the  best  friend  I've  ever  had.  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  insist  on  being  something  else." 

"  But  I  do  insist " 

"  And  I  insist  upon  going  home.  Be  good  and 
take  me." 

It  was  said  with  decision,  and  he  gave  the  order  to 
the  driver.  And  so  they  whirled  at  last  up  the  ave- 
nue of  the  Presidents  and  along  the  edges  of  the 
Park,  and  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace  of  the 
big  house. 

There  was  a  light  in  the  tower  window. 

"  That  fellow  is  up  yet,"  Porter  said.  He  had  an 
umbrella  over  her,  and  was  shielding  her  as  best  he 
could  from  the  rain.  *'  I  don't  like  to  think  of  him 
in  the  house." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  sees  you  every  day.  Talks  to  you  every 
day.  And  what  do  you  know  of  him?  And  I 
who've  known  you  all  my  life  must  be  content  with 

56 


A  LONELT  WATFARER 

scrappy  minutes  with  other  people  around.  And 
anyhow — I  believe  I'd  be  jealous  of  Satan  him- 
self, Mary." 

They  were  under  the  porch  now,  and  she  drew 
away  from  him  a  bit,  surveying  him  with  disapprov- 
ing eyes. 

"  You  aren't  like  yourself  to-night,  Porter." 

He  put  one  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  stood  look- 
ing down  at  her.  "  How  can  I  be  ?  What  am  I 
going  to  do  when  I  leave  you,  Mary,  and  face  the 
fact  that  you  don't  care — that  I'm  no  more  to  you — 
than  that  fellow  up  there  in  the — tower?" 

He  straightened  himself,  then  with  the  madness  of 
his  earlier  mood  upon  him,  he  said  one  thing  more 
before  he  left  her  : 

"  Contrary  Mary,  if  I  weren't  such  a  coward,  and 
you  weren't  so — wonderful — I'd  kiss  you  now — and 
make  you — care " 


^ 


CHAPTER  IV 

In  Which  a  Little  Bronze  Boy  Grins  in  the  Dark ; 
and  in  Which  Mary  Forgets  That  There  is  Any 
One  Else  in  the  House. 

UP-STAIRS  among  his  books  Roger  Poole  heard 
Mary  come  in.  With  the  curtains  drawn  be- 
hind him  to  shut  out  the  Hght,  he  looked  down  into 
the  streaming  night,  and  saw  Porter  drive  away 
alone. 

Then  Mary's  footstep  on  the  stairs ;  her  raised 
voice  as  she  greeted  Aunt  Isabelle,  who  had  waited 
up  for  her.  A  door  was  shut,  and  again  the  house 
sank  into  silence. 

Roger  turned  to  his  books,  but  not  to  read.  The 
old  depression  was  upon  him.  In  the  glow  of  his 
arrival,  he  had  been  warmed  by  the  hope  that  things 
could  be  different ;  here  in  this  hospitable  house  he 
had,  perchance,  found  a  home.  So  he  had  gone 
down  to  find  that  he  was  an  outsider — an  alien — old 
where  they  were  young,  separated  from  Barry  and 
Porter  and  Mary  by  years  of  dark  experience. 

To  him,  at  this  moment,  Mary  Ballard  stood  for  a 
symbol  of  the  things  which  he  had  lost.  Her  youth 
and  light-heartedness,  her  high  courage,  and  now, 
perhaps,  her  romance.     He  knew  the  look  that  was 

58 


A  LITTLE  BRONZE  BOT 

in  Porter  Bigelow's  eyes  when  they  had  rested  upon 
her.  The  look  of  a  man  who  claims — his  own.  And 
behind  Bigelow's  pleasant  and  perfunctory  greeting 
Roger  had  felt  a  subtle  antagonism.  He  smiled  bit- 
terlyc  No  man  need  fear  him.  He  was  out  of  the 
running.  He  was  done  with  love,  with  romance, 
with  women,  forever.  A  woman  had  spoiled  his 
life. 

Yet,  if  before  the  other,  he  had  met  Mary  Ballard  ? 
The  possibilities  swept  over  him.  His  life  to-day 
would  have  been  different.  He  would  be  facing  the 
world,  not  turning  his  back  to  it. 

Brooding  over  the  dying  fire,  his  eyes  were  stem. 
If  it  had  been  his  fault,  he  would  have  taken  his  pun- 
ishment without  flinching.  But  to  be  overthrown  by 
an  act  of  chivalry — to  be  denied  the  expression  of 
that  which  surged  within  him.  Daily  he  bent  over 
a  desk,  doing  the  work  that  any  man  might  do,  he 
who  had  been  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  his  fellow 
students,  he  whose  voice  had  rung  with  a  clarion 
call! 

In  the  lower  hall,  a  door  was  again  opened,  and 
now  there  were  footsteps  ascending.  Then  he  heard 
a  little  laugh.  "  I've  found  her — Aunt  Isabelle,  she 
insists  upon  going  up." 

He  clicked  off  his  light  and  very  carefully  opened 
his  door.  Mary  was  in  the  lower  hall,  the  heavy 
gray  cat  hugged  up  in  her  arms.  She  wore  a  lace 
boudoir  cap,  and  a  pale  blue  dressing-gown  trailed 

59 


CONTRART  MART 

after  her.  Seen  thus,  she  was  exquisitely  feminine 
Faintly  through  his  consciousness  flitted  Porter 
Bigelow's  name  for  her — Contrary  Mary.  Why 
Contrary  ?  Was  there  another  side  which  he  had 
not  seen?  He  had  heard  her  flaming  words  to 
Barry,  "If  I  were  a  man — I'd  make  the  world 
move ^"  and  he  had  been  for  the  moment  re- 
pelled. He  had  no  sympathy  with  modern  feminine 
rebellions.  Women  were  women.  Men  were  men. 
The  things  which  they  had  in  common  were  love, 
and  that  which  followed,  the  home,  the  family.  Be- 
yond these  things  their  lives  were  divided,  neces- 
sarily, properly. 

He  groped  his  way  back  through  the  darkness  to 
the  tower  window,  opened  it  and  leaned  out.  The 
rain  beat  upon  his  face,  the  wind  blew  his  hair  back, 
and  fluttered  the  ends  of  his  loose  tie.  Below  him 
lay  the  storm-swept  city,  its  lights  faint  and  flicker- 
ing. He  remembered  a  text  which  he  had  chosen 
on  a  night  like  this. 

"  O  Lord,  Thou  art  my  God.  I  will  exalt  Thee, 
I  will  praise  Thy  name,  for  Thou  hast  done  wonder- 
ful things ;  Thou  hast  been  a  strength  to  the  poor,  a 
strength  to  the  needy  in  distress  ...  a  refuge 
from  the  storm " 

How  the  words  came  back  to  him,  out  of  that 
vivid  past.  But  to-night — why,  there  was  no — 
God  !  Was  he  the  fool  who  had  once  seen  God — in 
a  storm  ? 

60 


A  LITTLE  BRONZE  EOT 

He  shut  the  window,  and  finding  a  heavy  coat  and 
an  old  cap  put  them  on.  Then  he  made  his  way, 
softly,  down  the  tower  steps  to  the  side  door.  Mary 
had  pointed  out  to  him  that  this  entrance  would 
make  it  possible  for  him  to  go  and  come  as  he 
pleased.  To-night  it  pleased  him  to  walk  in  the 
beating  rain. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  garden  there  was  an  old 
fountain,  in  which  a  bronze  boy  rode  on  a  bronze 
dolphin.  The  basin  of  the  fountain  was  filled  with 
sodden  leaves.  A  street  lamp  at  the  foot  of  the  ter- 
race illumined  the  bronze  boy's  face  so  that  it  seemed 
to  wear  a  twisted  grin.  It  was  as  if  he  laughed  at 
the  storm  and  at  life,  defying  the  elements  with  his 
sardonic  mirth. 

Back  and  forth,  restlessly,  went  the  lonely  man, 
hating  to  enter  again  the  rooms  which  only  a  few 
hours  before  had  seemed  a  refuge.  It  would  have 
been  better  to  have  stayed  in  his  last  cheap  board- 
ing-house, better  to  have  kept  away  from  this  place 
which  brought  memories — better  never  to  have  seen 
this  group  of  young  folk  who  were  gay  as  he  had 
once  been  gay — better  never  to  have  seen — Mary 
Ballard  I 

He  glanced  up  at  the  room  beneath  his  own  where 
her  light  still  burned.  He  wondered  if  she  had 
stayed  awake  to  think  of  the  young  Apollo  of  the 
auburn  head.  Perhaps  he  was  already  her  accepted 
lover.     And  why  not? 

6? 


CONTRART  MART 

■    Why  should  he  care  who  loved  Mary  Ballard  ? 

He  had  never  believed  in  love  at  first  sight.  He 
didn't  believe  in  it  now.  He  only  knew  that  he  had 
been  thrilled  by  a  look,  warmed  by  a  friendliness, 
touched  by  a  frankness  and  sincerity  such  as  he  had 
found  in  no  other  woman.  And  because  he  had 
been  thrilled  and  warmed  and  touched  by  these 
things,  he  was  feeling  to-night  the  deadly  mockery 
of  a  fate  which  had  brought  her  too  late  into  his  life. 


Coming  in,  shivering  and  excited  after  her  ride 
with  Porter,  Mary  had  found  evidence  of  Aunt  Isa- 
belle's  solicitous  care  for  her.  Her  fire  was  burning 
brightly,  the  covers  of  her  bed  were  turned  down, 
her  blue  dressing-gown  and  the  little  blue  slippers 
were  warming  in  front  of  the  blaze. 

"  No  one  ever  did  such  things  for  me  before," 
Mary  said  with  appreciation,  as  the  gentle  lady  came 
in  to  kiss  her  niece  good-night.  "  Mother  wasn't 
that  kind.  We  all  waited  on  her.  And  Susan  Jenks 
is  too  busy ;  it  isn't  right  to  keep  her  up.  And  any- 
way I've  always  been  more  like  a  boy,  taking  care 
of  myself.  Constance  was  the  one  we  petted.  Cor 
and  mother." 

"  I  love  to  do  it,"  Aunt  Isabelle  said,  eagerly. 
*  When  I  am  at  Frances'  there  are  so  many  servants, 
and  I  feel  pushed  out.  There's  nothing  that  I  can 
do  for  any  one.     Grace  and  Frances  each  have  a 

62 


A  LITTLE  BRONZE  BOT 

maid.  So  I  live  my  own  life,  and  sometimes  it  has 
been — lonely." 

"  You  darling."  Mary  laid  her  cool  young  lips 
against  the  soft  cheek.  "I'm  dead  lonely,  too. 
That's  why  I  wanted  you." 

Aunt  Isabelle  stood  for  a  moment  looking  into  the 
fire.  •*  It  has  been  years  since  anybody  wanted  me," 
she  said,  finally. 

There  was  no  bitterness  in  her  tone  ;  she  simply 
stated  a  fact.  Yet  in  her  youth  she  had  been  the 
beauty  of  the  family,  and  the  toast  of  a  county. 

*•  Aunt  Isabelle,"  Mary  said,  suddenly,  "  is  mar- 
riage the  only  way  out  for  a  woman  ?  " 

"  The  only  way  ?  " 

"To  freedom.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  single 
woman  always  seems  to  belong  to  her  family.  Why 
shouldn't  you  do  as  you  please?  Why  shouldn't 
I  ?  And  yet  you've  never  lived  your  own  life.  And 
I  sha'n't  be  able  to  live  mine  except  by  fighting  every 
inch  of  the  way." 

A  flush  stained  Aunt  Isabelle's  cheeks.  "  I  have 
always  been  poor,  Mary " 

"  But  that  isn't  it,"  fiercely.  "  There  are  poor  girls 
who  aren't  tied — I  mean  by  conventions  and  family 
traditions.  Why,  Aunt  Isabelle,  I  rented  the  Tower 
Rooms  not  only  in  defiance  of  the  living — but  of  the 
dead.  I  can  see  mother's  face  if  we  had  thought 
of  such  a  thing  while  she  lived.  Yet  we  needed 
the   money  thea     We  needed  it  to  help  Dad — to 

63 


CONTRART  MART 

save  him  — —"     The  last  words  were  spoken  under 
her  breath,  and  Aunt  Isabelle  did  not  catch  them. 

"  And  now  everybody  wants  me  to  get  married. 
Oh,  Aunt  Isabelle,  sit  down  and  let's  talk  it  out 
I'm  not  sleepy,  are  you  ?  "  She  drew  the  little  lady 
beside  her  on  the  high-backed  couch  which  faced  the 
fire.  "  Everybody  wants  me  to  get  married,  Aunt 
Isabelle.     And  to-night  I  had  it  out  with — Porter." 

"  You  don't  love  him  ?  " 

"  Not — that  way.  But  sometimes — he  makes  me 
feel  as  if  I  couldn't  escape  him — as  if  he  would  per- 
sist and  persist,  until  he  won.  But  I  don't  want  love 
to  come  to  me  that  way.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  one 
loves,  one  knows.     One  doesn't  have  to  be  shown." 

"My  dear,  sometimes  it  is  a  tragedy  when  a 
woman  knows." 

"But  why?" 

"  Because  men  like  to  conquer.  When  they  see 
love  in  a  woman's  eyes,  their  own  love — dies." 

"  I  should  hate  a  man  like  that,"  said  Mary,  frankly. 
"  If  a  man  only  loves  you  because  of  the  conquest, 
what's  going  to  happen  when  you  are  married  and 
the  chase  is  over  ?  No,  Aunt  Isabelle,  when  I  fall  in 
love,  it  will  be  with  a  man  who  will  know  that  I  am 
the  One  Woman.  He  must  love  me  because  I  am 
Me — Myself.  Not  because  some  one  else  admires 
me,  or  because  I  can  keep  him  guessing.  He 
will  know  me  as  I  know  him — ^as  his  Predestined 
Mate  I" 

64 


A  LITTLE  BRONZE  BOT 

Thus  spoke  Sweet  and  Twenty,  glowing.  And 
Sweet  and  Forty,  meeting  that  flame  with  her 
banked  fires,  faltered.  *'  But,  my  dear,  how  can  you 
know?" 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  " 

The  abrupt  question  drove  every  drop  of  blood 
from  Aunt  Isabelle's  face.     "  Who  told  yon  ?  " 

**  Mother,  One  night  when  I  asked  her  why  you 
had  never  married.     You  don't  mind,  do  you?'' 

Aunt  Isabelle  shook  her  head.  "  No.  And,  Mary, 
dear,  I've  faced  all  the  loneliness,  all  the  depend- 
ence, rather  than  be  untrue  to  that  which  he  gave 
me  and  I  gave  him.  There  was  one  night,  in  this 
old  garden.  I  was  visiting  your  mother,  and  he  was 
in  Congress  at  the  time,  and  the  garden  was  full  of 
roses — and  it  was — moonlight.  And  we  sat  by  the 
fountain,  and  there  was  the  soft  splash  of  the  water, 
and  he  said  :  '  Isabelle,  the  little  bronze  boy  is  throw- 
ing kisses  at  you — do  you  see  him — smiling  ? '  And 
I  said,  '  I  want  no  kisses  but  yours ' — and  that  was 
the  last  time.  The  next  day  he  was  killed — thrown 
from  his  horse  while  he  was  riding  out  here  to  see — 
me. 

*'  It  was  after  that  I  was  so  ill.  And  something 
seemed  to  snap  in  my  head,  and  one  day  when  1  sat 
beside  the  fountain  I  found  that  I  couldn't  hear  the 
splash  of  the  water,  and  things  began  to  go ;  the 
voices  I  loved  seemed  far  away,  and  I  could  tell 
that  the  wind  was  blowing  only  by  the  movement  of 

65 


CONTRART  MART 

the  leaves,  and  the  birds  rounded  out  their  little 
throats — but  I  heard — no  music " 

Her  voice  trailed  away  into  silence. 

"  But  before  the  stillness,  there  were  others  who — 
wanted  me — for  I  hadn't  lost  my  prettiness,  and 
Frances  did  her  best  for  me.  And  she  didn't  like  it 
when  I  said  I  couldn't  marry,  Mary.  But  now  I  am 
glad.  For  in  the  silence,  my  love  and  I  live,  in  a 
world  of  our  own." 

"  Aunt  Isabelle — darling.     How  lovely  and  sweet, 

and  sad "     Mary  was  kneeling  beside  her  aunt, 

her  arm  thrown  around  her,  and  Aunt  Isabelle^  read- 
ing her  lips,  did  not  need  to  hear  the  words. 

"  If  I  had  been  strong,  like  you,  Mary,  I  could 
have  held  my  own  against  Frances  and  have  made 
something  of  myself.  But  I'm  not  strong,  and 
twenty-five  years  ago  women  did  not  ask  for  free- 
dom.    They  asked  for — love." 

"  But  I  want  to  find  freedom  in  my  love.  Not  be 
bound  as  Porter  wants  to  bind  me.  He'd  put  me 
on  a  pedestal  and  worship  me,  and  I'd  rather  stand 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  my  husband  and  be  his 
comrade.  I  don't  want  him  to  look  up  too  far,  or  to 
look  down  as  Gordon  looks  down  on  Constance." 

"  Looks  down  ?     Why,  he  adores  her,  Mary." 

*'  Oh,  he  loves  her.  And  he'll  do  everything  for 
her,  but  he  will  do  it  as  if  she  were  a  child.  He 
won't  ask  her  opinion  in  any  vital  matter.  He  won't 
share  his  big  interests  with  her,  and  so  he'll  never 

66 


A  LITTLE  BRONZE  EOT 

discover  the  big  fine  womanliness.  And  she'll  shrivel 
to  his  measure  of  her."  / 

Aunt  Isabelle  shook  her  head,  smiling'.  "  Don't 
analyze  too  much,  Mary.  Men  and  women  are 
human — and  you  may  lose  yourself  in  a  search  for 
the  Ideal." 

"  Do  you  know  what  Porter  calls  me,  Aunt  Isa- 
belle ?  Contrary  Mary.  He  says  I  never  do  things 
the  way  the  people  expect.  Yet  I  do  them  the  way 
that  I  must.  It  is  as  if  some  force  were  inside  of  me 
— driving  me — on." 

She  stood  up  as  she  said  it,  stretching  out  her 
arms  in  an  eager  gesture.  "  Aunt  Isabelle,  if  I  were 
a  man,  there' d  be  something  in  the  world  for  me  to 
do.  Yet  here  I  am,  making  ends  meet,  holding  up 
my  part  of  the  housekeeping  with  Susan  Jenks,  and 
taking  from  the  hands  of  my  rich  friends  such  pleas- 
ures as  I  dare  accept  without  return." 

Aunt  Isabelle  pulled  her  down  beside  her.  **  Re- 
bellious Mary,"  she  said,  "who  is  going  to  tame 
you  ?  " 

They  laughed  a  little,  clinging  to  each  other,  and 
then  Mary  said,  "You  must  go  to  bed.  Aunt  Isa- 
belle.    I'm  keeping  you  up  shamefully." 

They  kissed  again  and  separated,  and  Mary  made 
ready  for  bed.  She  took  off  her  cap,  and  all  her 
lovely  hair  fell  about  her.  That  was  another  of  her 
contrary  ways.  She  and  Constance  had  been  taught 
to  braid  it  neatly,  but  from  litde  girlhood  Mary  had 

67 


CONTRART  MART 

protested,  and  on  going  to  bed  with  two  prim  pig- 
tails had  been  known  to  wake  up  in  the  middle  of 
the  night  and  take  them  down,  only  to  be  discovered 
in  the  morning  with  all  her  fair  curls  in  a  tangle. 
Scolding  had  not  availed.  Once,  as  dire  punish- 
ment, the  curls  had  been  cut  off.  But  Mary  had 
rejoiced.  "  It  makes  me  look  like  a  boy,"  she  had 
told  her  mother,  calmly,  "  and  I  like  it." 

Another  of  her  little  girl  fancies  had  been  to  say 
her  prayers  aloud.  She  said  them  that  way  to-night, 
kneeling  by  her  bed  with  her  fair  head  on  her  folded 
hands. 

Then  she  turned  out  the  light,  and  drew  her  cur- 
tains back.     As  she  looked  out  at  the  driving  rain, 
the  flare  of  the  street  lamp  showed  a  motionless 
figure  on  the  terrace.     For  a  moment  she  peered, 
palpitating,  then  flew  into  Aunt  Isabelle's  room. 
'•  There's  some  one  in  the  garden." 
"  Perhaps  it's  Barry." 
"  Didn't  he  come  with  you  ?  " 
"  No.     He  went  on  with  Leila  and  the  General." 
"  But  it  is  two  o'clock,  Aunt  Isabelle." 
"  I  didn't  know ;  I  thought  perhaps  he  had  come." 
Go(ng  back  into  her  room,  Mary  threw  on  her 
blue  dressing-gown   and   slippers  and  opened  her 
door.    The  light  was  still  burning  in  the  hall.    Barry 
always  turned  it  out  when  he  came.     She  stood  un- 
decided, then  started  down  the  back  stairs,  but  halted 
as  the  door  opened  and  a  dark  figure  appeared. 

68 


A  LITTLE  BRONZE  BOT 

"  Barry " 

Roger  Poole  looked  up  at  her.  "ly  isn't  your 
brother,"  he  said.  "  I — I  must  beg  your  pardon  for 
disturbing   you.      I   could   not   sleep,   and   I    went 

out "      He  stopped   and   stammered.      Poised 

there  above  him  with  all  the  wonder  of  her  unbound 
hair  about  her,  she  was  like  some  celestial  vision. 

She  smiled  at  him.  "  It  doesn't  matter,"  she  said ; 
"  please  don't  apologize.  It  was  foolish  of  me  to  be 
— frightened.  But  I  had  forgotten  that  there  was 
any  one  else  in  the  house." 

She  was  unconscious  of  the  effect  of  her  words. 
But  his  soul  shrank  within  him.  To  her  he  was  the 
lodger  who  paid  the  rent.  To  him  she  was,  well, 
just  now  she  was,  to  him,  the  Blessed  Damosel  1 

Faintly  in  the  distance  they  heard  the  closing  of  a 
door.  "It's  Barry,"  Mary  said,  and  suddenly  a  wave 
of  self-consciousness  swept  over  her.  What  would 
Barry  think  to  find  her  at  this  hour  talking  to  Roger 
Poole  ?  And  what  would  he  think  of  Roger  Poole, 
who  walked  in  the  garden  on  a  rainy  night  ? 

Roger  saw  her  confusion.  "  I'll  turn  out  this 
light,"  he  said,  "  and  wait " 

And  she  waited,  too,  in  the  darkness  until  Barry 
was  safe  in  his  own  room,  then  she  spoke  softly, 
"  Thank  you  so  much,"  she  said,  and  was  gone- 


CHAPTER  V 

In  Which  Roger  Remembers  a  Face  and  Delilah  Re* 
members  a  Voice — and  in  Which  a  Poem  and  a 
Pussy  Cat  Play  an  Important  Part. 

SINCE  the  night  of  his  arrival,  Roger  had  not  in- 
truded upon  the  family  circle.  He  had  read 
hostility  in  Barry's  eyes  as  the  boy  had  looked  up  at 
him  ;  and  Mary,  in  spite  of  her  friendliness,  had  for- 
gotten that  he  was  in  the  house  1  Well,  they  had 
set  the  pace,  and  he  would  keep  to  it.  Here  in  the 
tower  he  could  live  alone — yet  not  be  lonely,  for  the 
books  were  there — and  they  brought  forgetfulness. 

He  took  long  walks  through  the  city,  now  awaken- 
ing to  social  and  political  activities.  Back  to  town 
came  the  folk  who  had  fled  from  the  summer  heat ; 
back  came  the  members  of  House  and  of  Senate, 
streaming  in  from  North,  South,  East  and  West  for 
the  coming  Congress.  Back  came  the  office-seekers 
and  the  pathetic  patient  group  whose  claims  were 
waiting  for  the  passage  of  some  impossible  bill. 

There  came,  too,  the  sightseers  and  trippers, 
sweeping  from  one  end  of  the  town  to  the  other,  climb- 
ing the  dome  of  the  Capitol,  walking  down  the  steps 
of  the  Monument,  venturing  into  the  White  House, 
piloted  through  the  Bureau  where  the  money  is  made^ 

70 


A  POEM  AND  A  PUS  ST  CAT 

riding  on  "rubber-neck  wagons,"  sailing  about  in 
taxis,  stampeding  Mt.  Vernon,  bombarding  Fort 
Myer,  and  doing  it  all  gloriously  under  golden 
November  skies. 

And  because  of  the  sightseers  and  statesmen,  and 
the  folk  who  had  been  away  for  the  summer,  the 
shops  began  to  take  on  beauty.  Up  F  Street  and 
around  Fourteenth  into  H  swept  the  eager  proces- 
sion, and  all  the  windows  were  abloom  for  them. 

Roger  walked,  too,  in  the  country.  In  other 
lands,  or  at  least  so  their  poets  have  it,  November  is 
the  month  of  chill  and  dreariness.  But  to  the  city 
on  the  Potomac  it  comes  with  soft  pink  morning 
mists  and  toward  sunset,  with  amethystine  vistas. 
And  if,  beyond  the  city,  the  fields  are  frosted,  it  is 
frost  of  a  feathery  whiteness  which  melts  in  the  glory 
of  a  warmer  noon.  And  if  the  trees  are  bare,  there 
is  yet  pale  yellow  under  foot  and  pale  rose,  where  the 
leaves  wait  for  the  winter  winds  which  shall  whirl 
them  later  in  a  mad  dance  like  brown  butterflies. 
And  there's  the  green  of  the  pines,  and  the  flaming 
red  of  five-fingered  creepers. 

It  was  on  a  sunny  November  day,  therefore,  as  he 
followed  Rock  Creek  through  the  Park  that  Roger 
came  to  the  old  Mill  where  a  litde  tea  room  supplied 
afternoon  refreshment. 

As  it  was  far  away  from  car  lines,  its  patronage 
came  largely  from  those  who  arrived  in  motors  or  on 
horseback,  and  a  few  courageous  pedestrians. 

71 


CONTRART  MART 

Here  Roger  sat  down  to  rest,  ordering  a  rather 
substantial  repast,  for  the  long  walk  had  made  him 
hungry. 

It  was  while  he  waited  that  a  big  car  arrived  with 
five  passengers.  He  recognized  Porter  Bigelow  at 
once,  and  there  were  besides  two  older  men  and  two 
young  women. 

The  taller  of  the  two  young  women  had  eyes  that 
roved.  She  had  blue  black  hair,  and  she  wore  black 
— a  small  black  hat  with  a  thin  curved  plume,  and  a 
tailored  suit  cut  on  lines  which  accentuated  her  height 
and  slenderness.  Her  furs  were  of  leopard  skins. 
Her  cheeks  were  touched  with  high  color  under  her 
veil. 

The  other  girl  had  also  dark  hair.  But  she  was 
small  and  bird-like.  From  head  to  foot  she  was  in  a 
deep  dark  pink  that,  in  the  wool  of  her  coat  and  the 
chiffon  of  her  veil,  gave  back  the  hue  of  the  rose 
which  was  pinned  to  her  muff. 

But  it  was  on  the  girl  in  black  that  Roger  fixed  his 
eyes.     Where  had  he  seen  her  ? 

They  chose  a  table  near  him,  and  passed  within 
the  touch  of  his  hand.  Porter  did  not  recognize  him. 
The  tall  man  in  the  old  overcoat  and  soft  hat  was  not 
linked  in  his  memory  with  that  moment  of  meeting 
in  Mary's  dining-room. 

"  Everybody  mixes  up  our  names.  Porter,"  the 
girl  with  the  rose  was  saying  as  they  sat  down  ;  **  the 
girls  did  at  school,  didn't  they,  Lilah  ?  " 

72 


A  POEM  AND  A  PUSS7''  CAT 

"  Yes,"  the  girl  in  black  did  not  need  many  words 
with  her  eyes  to  talk  for  her. 

"Was  it  big  Lilah  and  little  Leila?"  Porter 
asked. 

"  No,"  the  dark  eyes  above  the  leopard  muff 
widened  and  held  his  gaze.  "  It  was  dear  Leila, 
and  dreadful  Lilah.  I  used  to  shock  them,  you 
know." 

The  three  men  laughed.  "  What  did  you  do  ? " 
demanded  Porter,  leaning  forward  a  little. 

Men  always  leaned  toward  Delilah  Jeliffe.  She 
drew  them  even  while  she  repelled. 

"I  smoked  cigarettes,  for  one  thing,"  she  said; 
"  everybody  does  it  now.  But  then — I  came  near 
being  expelled  for  it." 

The  little  rose  girl  broke  in  hotly.  "  I  think  it  is 
horrid  still,  Lilah,"  she  said. 

Lilah  smiled  and  shrugged.  "  But  that  wasn't  the 
worst.     One  day — I  eloped." 

She  was  making  them  all  listen.  The  old  men 
and  the  young  one,  and  the  man  at  the  other  table. 

"  I  eloped  with  a  boy  from  Prep.  He  was  nine- 
teen, and  I  was  two  years  younger.  We  started  by 
moonlight  in  Romeo's  motor  car — it  was  great  hva. 
But  the  clergyman  wouldn't  marry  us.  I  think  he 
guessed  that  we  were  a  pair  of  kiddies  from  school — 
and  he  scolded  us  and  sent  me  back  in  a  taxi " 

The  tall,  thin  old  gentleman  was  protesting.  "  My 
dear " 

73 


CONTRART  MART 

"  Oh,  you  didn't  know,  Daddy  darling,"  she  said. 
**  I  got  back  before  I  was  discovered,  and  let  myself 
in  by  the  door  I  had  unlocked.  But  I  couldn't  keep 
it  from  the  girls — it  was  such  fun  to  make  them — ■ 
shiver." 

"  And  what  became  of  Romeo  ?  "  Porter  asked. 

"  He  found  another  Juliet — a  lovely  little  blonde, 
and  they  are  living  happy  ever  after." 

Leila's  eyes  were  round.  "  But  I  don't  see, '  she 
began. 

"  Of  course  you  don't,  duckie.  To  me,  the  whole 
thing  was  an  adventure  along  the  road — to  you,  it 
would  have  been  a  heart-break." 

Her  words  came  clearly  to  Roger.  That,  then,  was 
what  love  meant  to  some  women — an  adventure  along 
the  road.  One  man  served  for  pleasuring,  until  at 
some  curve  in  the  highway  she  met  another. 

Lilah  was  challenging  her  audience.  "  And  now 
you  see  why  I  was  dreadful  Lilah.  I  fit  the  name 
they  had  for  me,  don't  I  ?  " 

Her  question  was  put  at  Porter,  and  he  answered 
it.  •*  It  is  women  who  set  the  pace  for  us,"  he  said ; 
"if  they  adventure,  we  venture.  If  they  lead,  we 
follow." 

General  Dick  broke  in.  With  his  halo  of  white 
hair  and  his  pink  face,  he  looked  like  an  indignant 
cherub.  "  The  way  you  young  people  treat  serious 
subjects  is  appalling  ;  "  then  he  felt  his  little  daugh- 
ter's hand  upon  his  arm. 

74 


A  POEM  AND  A  PUSST  CAT 

"  Lilah  is  always  saying  things  that  she  doesn't 
mean,  Dad.     Please  don't  take  her  seriously." 

"  Nobody  takes  me  seriously,"  said  Lilah,  "  and 
that's  why  nobody  knows  me  as  I  really  am." 

"  I  know  you,"  said  her  father,  "  and  you're  like  a 
little  mare  that  I  used  to  drive  out  on  the  ranch.  As 
long  as  I'd  let  her  have  her  head,  she  was  lovely. 
But  let  me  try  to  curb  her,  and  she'd  kick  over  the 
traces." 

They  all  laughed  at  that;  then  their  tea  came, 
and  a  great  plate  of  toast,  and  the  conversation  grew 
intermittent  and  less  interesting. 

Yet  the  man  at  the  other  table  had  his  attention 
again  arrested  when  Lilah  said  to  Porter,  as  she  drew 
on  her  gloves  : 

"  We  are  invited  to  Mary  Ballard's  for  Thanksgiv- 
ing, and  you're  to  be  there." 

"  Yes — mother  and  father  are  going  South,  so  I 
can  escape  the  family  feast." 

"  Mary   Ballard   is — charming "    It  was  said 

tentatively,  with  an  upward  sweep  of  her  lashes. 

But  Porter  did  not  answer ;  and  as  he  stood  be- 
hind her  chair,  there  was  a  deeper  flush  on  his  florid 
cheeks.  Mary's  name  he  held  in  his  heart.  It  was 
rarely  on  his  lips. 

Mary  had  not  wanted  Delilah  and  her  father  for 
Thanksgiving.  "  But  we  can't  have  Leila  and  the 
General  without  them,"  she  said  to  Barry,  aft«:  a 

75 


CONTRART  MART 

conversation  with  Leila  over  the  telephone,  "and 
it  wouldn't  seem  like  Thanksgiving  without  the 
Dicks." 

"  Delilah,"  said  Barry,  comfortably,  "  is  good  fun. 
I'm  glad  she  is  coming." 

"  She  may  be  good  fun,"  said  Mary,  slowly,  '■  but 
she  isn't — our  kind." 

"  Leila  said  that  to  me,"  Barry  told  her.  "  I  don't 
quite  see  what  you  girls  mean." 

"  Well,  you  wouldn't,"  Mary  agreed  ;  "  men  don't 
see.  But  I  should  think  when  you  look  at  Leila 
you'd  know  the  difference.  Leila  is  like  a  little  wild 
rose,  and  Delilah  Jeliffe  is  a — tulip." 

"  I  like  tu-lips,"  murmured  Barry,  audaciously. 

Mary  laughed.  What  was  the  use?  Barry  was 
Barry.  And  Delilah  Jeliffe  would  flit  in  and  out  of 
his  life  as  other  girls  had  flitted ;  but  always  there 
would  be  for  him — Leila. 

"  If  you  were  a  woman,"  she  said,  "  you'd  know 
by  her  clothes,  and  the  pink  of  her  cheeks,  and  by 
the  way  she  does  her  hair — she's  just  a  little  too 
much  of — everything — Barry." 

"There's  just  enough  of  Delilah  Jeliffe,"  said 
Barry,  "  to  keep  a  man  guessing." 

"  Guessing  what  ?  "  Mary  demanded  with  a  spark 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  just  guessing,"  easily. 

"  Whether  she  likes  you  ?  " 

Barry  nodded. 

76 


A  POEM  AND  A  PUSST  CAT 

**  But  why  should  you  want  to  know,  Barry  ? 
You're  not  in  love  with  her." 

His  blue  eyes  danced.  "  Love  hasn't  anything  to 
do  with  it,  little  solemn  sister;  it's  just  in  the — 
game." 

Later  they  had  a  tilt  over  inviting  Mary's  lodger. 

"  It  seems  so  inhospitable  to  let  him  spend  the  day 
up  there  alone." 

"  I  don't  see  how  he  could  possibly  expect  to  dine 
with  us,"  Barry  said,  hotly.  "  You  don't  know  any- 
thing about  him,  Mary.  And  I  agree  with  Porter — 
a  man's  bank  reference  isn't  sufficient  for  social 
recognition.  And  anyhow  he  may  not  have  the 
right  kind  of  clothes." 

"  We  are  to  have  dinner  at  three  o'clock,"  she 
said,  "  just  as  mother  always  had  it  on  Thanksgiving 
Day.  If  you  don't  want  me  to  ask  Roger  Poole,  I 
won't.     But  I  think  you  are  an  awful  snob,  Barry." 

Her  eyes  were  blazing. 

'*Now  what  have  I  done  to  deserve  that?"  her 
brother  demanded. 

"You  haven't  treated  him  civilly,"  Mary  said. 
'•  In  a  sense  he's  a  guest  in  our  house,  and  you 
haven't  been  up  to  his  rooms  since  he  came — and 
he's  a  gentleman." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

*'  Because  I  do." 

"  Yet  the  other  day  you  hinted  that  Delilah 
]eliffe  wasn't  a  lady,  not  in  your  sense  of  the  word 

77 


CONTRART  MART 

—and  that  I  couldn't  see  the  difference  because  i 
was  a  man.  I'll  let  you  have  your  opinion  of  De- 
lilah Jeliffe  if  you'll  let  me  have  mine  of  Roger 
Poole." 

So  Mary  compromised  by  having  Roger  down  for 
the  evening.  "We  shall  be  just  a  family  party  for 
dinner,"  she  said.  "  But  later,  we  are  asking  some 
others  for  candle-lighting  time.  We  want  every- 
body to  come  prepared  to  tell  a  story  or  recite,  or  to 
sing,  or  play — in  the  dark  at  first,  and  then  with  the 
candles." 

His  pride  urged  him  to  refuse — to  spurn  this  offer 
of  hospitality  from  the  girl  who  had  once  forgotten 
that  he  was  in  the  house  1 

But  as  he  stood  there  on  the  threshold  of  the 
Tower  Rooms,  her  smile  seemed  to  draw  him,  her 
voice  called  him,  and  he  was  young — and  desper- 
ately lonely. 

So  as  he  dressed  carefully  on  Thanksgiving  after- 
noon, he  had  a  sense  of  exhilaration.  For  one  night 
he  would  let  himself  go.  He  would  be  himself.  No 
one  should  snub  him.  Snubs  came  from  self-con- 
sciousness— he  who  was  above  them  need  not  see 
them. 

When  at  last  he  entered  the  drawing-room,  it  was 
unillumined  except  for  the  flickering  flame  of  a  fire 
of  oak  logs.  The  guests,  assembling  wraith-like 
among  the  shadows,  were  given,  each,  an  unlighted 
candle. 

7» 


A  POEM  AND  A  PUSST  CAT 

Roger  found  a  place  in  a  big  chair  beside  the 
piano,  and  sat  there  alone,  interested  and  curious. 
And  presently  Pittiwitz,  stealing  toward  the  hearth, 
arched  her  back  under  his  hand,  and  he  reached 
down  and  lifted  her  to  his  knee,  where  she  stretched 
herself,  sphinx-like,  her  amber  eyes  shining  in  the 
dusk. 

With  the  last  guest  seated,  Barry  stood  before 
them,  and  gave  the  key  to  the  situation. 

"  Everybody  is  to  light  a  candle  with  some  stunt," 
he  explained.  "  You  know  the  idea.  All  of  you  have 
some  parlor  tricks,  and  you're  to  show  them  off." 

There  were  no  immediate,  volunteers,  so  Barry 
pounced  on  Leila. 

"  You  begin,"  he  said,  and  drew  her  into  the  circle 
of  the  firelight. 

She  looked  very  childish  and  sweet  as  she  stood 
there  with  her  unlighted  candle,  and  sang  a  lullaby. 
Mary  Ballard  played  her  accompaniment  sofdy,  sit- 
ting so  near  to  Roger  in  his  dim  corner  that  the 
folds  of  her  velvet  gown  swept  his  foot. 

And  when  the  song  was  finished,  Leila  touched  a 
match  to  her  candle  and  stood  on  tiptoe  to  set  it  on 
the  corner  of  the  mantel,  where  it  glimmered  bravely. 

General  Dick  and  Mr.  Jeliffe  came  next.  Sol- 
emnly they  placed  two  cushions  on  the  hearth-rug, 
solemnly  they  knelt  thereon,  facing  each  other. 
Then  intently  and  conscientiously  they  played  the 
old  game  of  '*  Pease  porridge  hot,  pease  porridge 

79 


CONTRART  MART 

cold."  The  General's  fat  hands  met  Mr.  Jeliffe's 
thin  ones  alternately  and  in  unison.  Not  a  mistake 
did  they  make,  and,  ending  out  of  breath,  the  Gen- 
eral found  it  hard  to  rise,  and  had  to  be  picked  up 
by  Porter,  like  a  plump  feather  pillow. 

And  now  the  candles  were  three ! 

Then  Barry  and  Delilah  danced,  a  dance  which 
they  had  practiced  together.  It  had  in  it  just  a  hint 
of  wildness,  and  just  a  hint  of  sophistication,  and 
Delilah  in  her  dress  of  sapphire  chiffon,  with  its  flar- 
ing tunic  of  silver  net,  seemed  in  the  nebulous  light 
like  some  strange  bird  of  the  night. 

And  now  the  candles  were  five  I 

Following,  Leila  went  to  the  piano,  and  Portei 
and  Mary  gave  a  minuet.  They  had  learned  it 
at  dancing-school,  and  it  had  been  years  since 
they  had  danced  it.  But  they  did  it  very  well ; 
Porter's  somewhat  stiff  bearing  accorded  with  its 
stateliness,  and  Mary,  having  added  to  her  green 
velvet  gown  a  little  Juliet  cap  of  lace  and  a  iace  fan, 
showed  the  radiant,  almost  boyish  beauty  which  had 
charmed  Roger  on  the  night  of  the  wedding. 

His  pulses  throbbed  as  he  watched  her.  They 
were  a  well-matched  pair,  this  young  millionaire  and 
the  pretty  maid.  And  as  their  orderly  steps  went 
through  the  dance,  so  would  their  orderly  lives,  if 
they  married,  continue  to  the  end.  But  what  could 
Porter  Bigelow  teach  Mary  Ballard  of  the  things 
which  touch  the  stars  ? 

80 


A  POEM  AND  A  PUS  ST  CAT 

And  now  the  candles  were  seven !  And  the  spirit 
of  the  carnival  was  upon  the  company.  Song  was 
followed  by  story,  and  story  by  song — until  at  last 
the  room  seemed  to  swim  in  a  golden  mist. 

And  through  that  mist  Mary  saw  Roger  Poole  1 
He  was  leaning  forward  a  little,  and  there  was  about 
him  the  air  of  a  man  who  waited. 

She  spoke  impetuously. 

"  Mr.  Poole,"  she  said,  "  please " 

There  was  not  a  trace  of  awkwardness,  not  a  hint  of 
self-consciousness  in  his  manner  as  he  answered  her. 

"  May  I  sit  here  ?  "  he  asked.  "  You  see,  my  pussy 
cat  holds  me,  and  as  I  shall  tell  you  about  a  cat,  she 
gives  the  touch  of  local  color." 

And  then  he  began,  his  right  hand  resting  on  the 
gray  cat's  head,  his  left  upon  his  knee. 

He  used  no  gestures,  yet  as  he  went  on,  the  room 
became  still  with  the  stillness  of  a  captured  audience. 
Here  was  no  stumbling  elocution,  but  a  controlled 
and  perfect  method,  backed  by  a  voice  which  soared 
and  sang  and  throbbed  and  thrilled — the  voice  either 
of  a  great  orator,  or  of  a  great  actor. 

The  story  that  he  told  was  of  Whittington  and  his 
cat.  But  it  was  not  the  old  nursery  rhyme.  He 
gave  it  as  it  is  written  by  one  of  England's  younger 
poets.  Since  he  lacked  the  time  for  it  all,  he  sketched 
the  theme,  rounding  it  out  here  and  there  with  a 
verse — and  it  seemed  to  Mary  that,  as  he  spoke,  all 
viie  bells  of  London  boomed  I 

8l 


CONTRART  MART 

"  *  Flos  Mercatorum,'  moaned  the  bell  of  All  Hallowes, 

*  There  was  he  an  orphan,  O,  a  little  lad,  alone  I  ' 
'Then  we  all  sang,'  echoed  happy  St.  Saviour's, 

*  Called  him  and  lured  him,  and  made  him  our  own.'  " 

And  now  they  saw  the  httle  lad  stealing  toward 
the  big  city,  saw  all  the  color  and  glow  as  he  entered 
upon  its  enchantment,  saw  his  meeting  with  the 
green-gowned  Alice,  saw  him  cold  and  hungry,  faint 
and  footsore,  saw  him  aswoon  on  a  door-step. 

"  *  Alice,'  roared  a  voice,  and  then,  O  like  a  lilied  angel, 
Leaning  from  the  lighted  door,  a  fair  face  unafraid. 
Leaning  over  Red  Rose  Lane,  O,  leaning  out  of  Paradise, 
Drooped  the  sudden  glory  of  his  green-gowned  maid  I  " 

Touching  now  a  lighter  note,  his  voice  laughed 
through  the  lovely  lines ;  of  the  ship  which  was  to 
sail  beyond  the  world  ;  of  how  each  man  staked  such 
small  wealth  as  he  possessed ;  "for  in  those  days 
Marchaunt  adventurers  shared  with  their  prentices 
the  happy  chance  of  each  new  venture." 

But  Whittington  had  nothing  to  give.  "  Not  a 
groat,"  he  tells  sweet  Alice.  "  I  staked  my  last  groat 
in  a  cat ! " 

**  *  Ay,  but  we  need  a  cat,* 

The  Captain  said.     So  when  the  painted  ship 
Sailed  through  a  golden  sunrise  down  the  Thames, 
A  gray  tail  waved  upon  the  misty  poop, 
And  Whittington  had  his  venture  on  the  seas  !  " 
82 

) 


A  POEM  AND  A  PUS  ST  CAT 

The  ringing  words  brought  tumultuous  applause. 
Pittiwitz,  startled,  sat  up  and  blinked.  People  bent 
to  each  other,  asking :  "  Who  is  this  Roger  Poole  ?  " 
Under  his  breath  Barry  was  saying,  boyishly, "  Gee  I " 
He  might  still  wonder  about  Mary's  lodger,  he  would 
nevci-  again  look  down  on  him.  And  Delilah  Jeliffe 
sitting  next  to  Barry  murmured,  "  I've  heard  that 
voice  before — but  where  ?  " 

Again  the  bells  boomed  as  the  story  swept  on  to 
the  fortune  which  came  to  the  prentice  lad — the  price 
paid  for  his  cat  in  Barbary  by  a  king  whose  house 
was  rich  in  gems  but  sorely  plagued  with  rats  and 
mice. 

Then  Whittington's  offer  of  his  wealth  to  Alice,  her 
refusal,  and  so — to  the  end. 

"  *I  know  a  way,'  said  the  Bell  of  St.  Martin's. 

'  Tell  it  and  be  quick,'  laughed  the  prentices  below  ! 
*  Whittington  shall  marry  her,  marry  her,  marry  her ! 
Peal  for  a  wedding,'  said  the  Big  Bell  of  Bow." 

Roger  stopped  there,  and  with  Pittiwitz  in  his 
arras,  rose  to  light  his  candle.  All  about  him  people 
were  saying  things,  but  their  words  seemed  to  come 
to  him  through  a  beating  darkness.  There  was  only 
one  face — Mary's,  and  she  was  leaning  toward  him, 
or  was  it  above  him  ?     "  It  was  wonderful,"  she  said. 

"  It  is  a  great  poem." 

"  I  don't  mean  that — it  was  the  way  you — gave 
it" 

83 


CO  NT  R  ART  MART 

Outwardly  calm,  he  carried  his  candle  and  set  it 
in  its  place. 

Then  he  came  back  to  Mary — Mary  with  the  shin- 
ing eyes.  This  was  his  night!  "You  liked  it, 
then?" 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  speak,  then  she  said 
again,  "  It  was  wonderful." 

There  were  other  people  about  them  now,  and 
Roger  met  them  with  the  ease  of  a  man  of  the  world. 
Even  Barry  had  to  admit  that  his  manners  were  irre- 
proachable, and  his  clothes.  As  for  his  looks,  he 
was  not  to  be  matched  with  Mary's  auburn  Apollo 
— one  cannot  compare  a  royal  stag  and  a  tawny- 
maned  lion ! 

During  the  rest  of  the  program,  Roger  sat  en- 
throned at  Mary's  side,  and  listened.  He  watched 
the  candles,  an  increasing  row  of  little  pointed  lights. 
He  went  down  to  supper,  and  again  sat  beside  Mary 
— and  knew  not  what  he  ate.  He  saw  Porter's  hot 
eyes  upon  him.  He  knew  that  to-morrow  he  must 
doff  his  honors  and  be  as  he  had  been  before.  How- 
ever, "  who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night," 
he  told  himself,  desperately. 

Thus  he  played  with  Fate,  and  Fate,  turning  the 
tables,  brought  him  at  last  to  Delilah  Jeliffe  as  the 
guests  were  saying  "  good-bye." 

"  Somewhere  I've  heard  your  voice,"  she  said  with 
the  upsweep  of  her  lashes.  "  It  isn't  the  kind  that  one 
is  likely  to  forget" 

84 


A  POEM  AND  A  PVSST  CAT 

'*  Yet  you  have  forgotten,"  he  parried. 

"I  shall  remember,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  re- 
member— and  I  shall  want  to  hear  it  again." 

He  shook  his  head.   "  It  was  my — swan  song " 

"Why?" 

He  shrugged.    *'  One  isn't  always  in  the  mood " 

And  now  it  was  she  who  shook  her  head.  "  It 
isn't  a  mood  with  you,  it's  your  life." 

She  had  him  there,  so  he  carried  the  conversation 
lightly  to  another  topic.  "  I  had  not  thought  to  give 
Whittington  until  I  saw  Pittiwitz." 

"  And  Mary's  green  gown  ?  " 

Again  he  parried.  "  It  was  dark.  I  could  not 
see  the  color  of  her  gown." 

"  But  '  love  has  eyes.'  "  The  words  were  light 
and  she  meant  them  lightly.  And  she  went  away 
laughing. 

But  Roger  did  not  laugh. 

And  when  Mary  came  to  look  for  him  he  was 
gone. 

And  up-stairs,  his  evening  stripped  of  its  glamour, 
he  told  himself  that  he  had  been  a  fool  1  The  world 
would  not  end  to-night.  He  had  to  live  the  ap- 
pointed length  of  his  days,  through  all  the  dreary 
years. 


85 


CHAPTER  VI 

In  Which  Mary  Brings  Christmas  to  the  Tower 
Rooms ;  and  in  Which  Roger  Declines  a  Privi- 
lege for  Which  Porter  Pleads. 

ON  Christmas  Eve,  Mary  and  Susan  Jenks  brought 
up  to  Roger  a  little  tree.  It  was  just  a  fir 
plume,  but  it  was  gay  with  tinsel  and  spicy  with  the 
fragrance  of  the  woods,  and  it  was  topped  by  a  wee 
wax  angel. 

In  vain  Mary  and  Barry  and  even  Aunt  Isabelle 
had  urged  Roger  to  join  their  merrymaking  down- 
stairs. Aunt  Frances,  having  delayed  her  trip  abroad 
until  January,  was  coming;  and  except  for  Leila 
and  General  Dick  and  Porter  Bigelow,  it  was  to  be 
strictly  a  family  affair. 

But  Roger  had  refused.  "  I'm  not  one  of  you," 
he  had  told  Mary.  "  I'm  a  bee,  not  a  butterfly,  and 
I  shouldn't  have  joined  you  on  Thanksgiving  night 
When  you're  alone,  if  I  may,  I'll  come  down — but 
please — not  with  your  guests." 

He  had  not  joined  them  often,  however,  and  he 
had  never  again  shown  the  mood  which  had  pos- 
sessed him  when  his  voice  had  charmed  them.  Hence 
they  grew,  as  the  days  went  on,  to  know  him  as  a 

86 


MART  BRINGS  CHRISTMAS 

quiet,  self-contained  man,  whose  eyes  burned  now 
and  then,  when  some  subject  was  broached  which 
moved  him,  but  who,  for  the  most  part,  showed  at 
least  an  outward  serenity. 

,  They  grew  to  like  him,  too,  and  to  depend  upon 
him.  Even  Aunt  Isabelle  went  to  him  for  advice. 
He  had  such  an  attentive  manner,  and  when  he 
spoke,  he  gave  his  opinion  with  an  air  of  comforting 
authority. 

But  always  he  avoided  Porter  Bigelow,  he  avoided 
Leila,  and  most  of  all,  he  avoided  Delilah  Jeliffe,  al- 
though that  persistent  young  person  would  have 
invaded  the  Tower  Rooms,  if  Mary  had  not  warned 
her  away. 

"  He  is  very  busy,  Lilah,"  she  said,  "  and  when  he 
isn't,  he  comes  down  here." 

"Don't  you  ever  go  up?"  Delilah's  tone  was 
curious. 

"  No,"  said  Mary.     "  Why  should  I  ?  " 

Delilah  shrugged.  "If  a  man,"  she  said,  "had 
looked  at  me  as  he  looked  at  you  on  Thanksgiving 
night,  I  should  be,  to  say  the  least — interested " 

Mary's  head  was  held  high.  "I  like  Roger  Poole," 
she  said,  "and  he's  a  gentleman.  But  I'm  not  think- 
ing about  the  look  in  his  eyes." 

Yet  she  did  think  of  it,  after  all,  for  such  seed 
does  the  Delilah-type  of  woman  sow.  She  thought 
of  him,  but  only  with  a  little  wonder — for  Mary  was 
as  yet  unawakened — Porter's  passionate  pleading, 


CONTRART  MART 

the  magic  of  Roger  Poole's  voice — these  had  not 
touched  the  heart  which  still  waited. 

"  Since  Mahomet  wouldn't  come  to  the  mountain," 
Mary  remarked  to  her  lodger  as  Susan  deposited  her 
burden,  "  the  mountain  had  to  come  to  Mahomet. 
And  here's  a  bit  of  mistletoe  for  your  door,  and  of 
holly  for  your  window." 

He  took  the  wreaths  from  her.  "  You  are  like  the 
spirit  of  Christmas  in  your  green  gown  " 

"This?"  She  was  wearing  the  green  velvet — 
with  a  low  collar  of  lace.  "Oh,  I've  had  this  for 
ages,  but  I  like  it "  She  broke  off  to  say,  wist- 
fully, "  It  seems  as  if  you  ought  to  come  down — as 
if  up  here  you'd  be  lonely." 

Susan  Jenks,  hanging  the  mistletoe  over  the  door, 
was  out  of  range  of  their  voices. 

"  I  am  lonely,"  Roger  said,  "  but  now  with  my 
littie  tree,  I  shall  forget  everything  but  your  kind- 
ness." 

"  Don't  you  love  Christmas  ? "  Mary  asked  him. 
"  It's  such  a  friendly  time,  with  everybody  thinking 
of  everybody  else.  I  had  to  hunt  a  lot  before  I  found 
the  wax  angel.  It  needed  such  a  little  one — but  I 
always  want  one  on  my  tree.  When  I  was  a  child, 
mother  used  to  tell  me  that  the  angel  was  bringing 
a  message  of  peace  and  good  will  to  our  house." 

"If  the  little  angel  brings  me  your  good  will,  1 
shall  feel  that  he  has  performed  his  mission  " 

"  Oh,  but  you  have  it,"  brightly.     "  We  are  aJJ  so 

88 


MART  BRINGS  CHRISTMAS 

glad  you  are  here.  Even  Barry,  and  Barry  hated 
the  idea  at  first  of  our  having  a  lodger.  But  he  likes 
you." 

••  And  I  like  Barry,"  he  said.  "  He  is  youth — in- 
carnate." 

"  He's  a  dear,"  she  agreed.  Then  a  shadow  came 
into  her  eyes.  "  But  he's  such  a  boy,  and — and  he's 
spoiled.  Everybody's  too  good  to  him.  Mother  was 
— and  father,  though  father  tried  not  to  be.  And 
Leila  is,  and  Constance — and  Aunt  Isabelle  excuses 
him,  and  even  Susan  Jenks." 

Susan  Jenks,  having  hung  all  the  wreaths,  had  de- 
parted, and  was  not  there  to  hear  this  mention  of  her 
shortcomings. 

"  I  see — and  you  ?  "  smiling. 

She  drew  a  long  breath.  "  I'm  trying  to  play  Big 
Sister — and  sometimes  I'm  afraid  I'm  more  like  a  big 
brother — I  haven't  the — patience." 

His  attentive  face  invited  further  confidence.  It 
was  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  listened  to  many  con- 
fidences, and  instinctively  she  felt  that  others  had 
been  helped  by  him. 

"  You  see  I  want  Barry  to  pass  the  Bar  examina- 
tion. All  of  the  men  of  our  family  have  been  lawyers. 
But  Barry  won't  study,  and  he  has  taken  a  position 
in  the  Patent  Office.  He's  wasting  these  best  years 
as  a  clerk." 

Then  she  remembered,  and  begged,  "  Forgive 
me " 

89 


CONTRART  MART 

'There's  nothing  to  forgive,"  he  said.  "  I  sup- 
pose I  am  wasting  my  years  as  a  clerk  in  the 
Treasury  Department — but  there's  this  difference, 
your  brother's  life  is  before  him — mine  is  behind  me. 
His  ambitions  are  yet  to  be  fulfilled.  I  have  no — 
ambitions." 

"  You  don't  mean  that — you  can't  mean  it  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  you're  a  man  I  Oh,  I  should  have  been 
the  man  of  our  family — and  Barry  and  Constance 
should  have  been  the  girls."     Her  eyes  blazed. 

"  You  think  then,  as  I  heard  you  say  the  other 
night  on  the  stairs,  that  the  world  is  ours ;  yet  we 
men  let  it  stand  still." 

Her  head  went  up.  "  Yes.  Perhaps  you  do  have 
to  fight  for  what  you  get.  But  I'd  rather  die  fight- 
ing than  smothered." 

He  laughed  a  good  boyish  laugh.  "  Does  Barry 
know  that  you  feel  that  way  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid,"  penitently,  "  that  I  make  him  feel  it, 
sometimes.  And  he  doesn't  know  that  it  is  because 
I  care  so  much.  That  it  is  because  I  want  him  to  be 
like— father." 

He  smiled  into  her  misty  eyes.  "  Perhaps  if  you 
weren't  so  militant — in  your  methods " 

"  Ob,  that's  the  trouble  with  Barry.  Everybody's 
too  good  to  him  And  when  I  try  to  counteract  it, 
Barry  says  that  I  nag.  But  he  doesn't  under- 
stand." 

90 


MART  BRINGS  CHRISTMAS 

Her  voice  broke,  and  by  some  subtle  intuition  he 
was  aware  that  her  burden  was  heavier  than  she  was 
willing  to  admit. 

She  stood  up  and  held  out  her  hand.  "  Thank  you 
so  much — for  letting  me  talk  to  you." 

He  took  her  hand  and  stood  looking  down  at 
her.  « 

"  Will  you  remember  that  always — when  you  need 
to  talk  things  out — that  the  Tower  Room — is  wait- 
ing?" 

And  now  there  were  steps  dancing  up  the  stairs, 
and  Barry  whirled  in  with  Little-Lovely  Leila. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  we  are  ready  to  light  the  tree, 
and  Aunt  Frances  is  having  fits  because  you  aren't 
down.  You  know  she  always  has  fits  when  things 
are  delayed.  Poole,  you  are  a  selfish  hermit  to  stay 
off  up  here  with  a  tree  of  your  own." 

Roger,  who  had  stepped  forward  to  speak  to  Leila, 
shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  deserve  to  be  invited. 
And  you're  all  too  good  to  me." 

"  Oh,  but  we're  not,"  Leila  spoke  in  her  pretty 
childish  way  ;  "  we'd  love  to  have  you  down.  Every* 
body's  just  crazy  about  you,  Mr.  Poole." 

They  shouted  at  that. 

*'  Leila,"  Barry  demanded,  "  are  you  crazy  about 
him  ?    Tell  me  now  and  get  the  agony  over." 

Leila,  tilting  herself  on  her  pink  slipper  toes  al- 
most crowed  with  delight  at  his  teasing :  "  I  said, 
everybody " 

91 


CONTRART  MART 

Barry  advanced  to  where  she  stood  in  the  door- 
way. 

"  Leila  Dick,"  he  announced,  "  you're  under  the 
mistletoe,  and  you  can't  escape,  and  I'm  going  to 
kiss  you.  It's  my  ancient  and  hereditary  privilege 
— isn't  it,  Poole  ?  It's  my  ancient  and  hereditary 
privilege,"  he  repeated,  and  now  he  was  bending  over 
her. 

"  Barry,"  Mary  expostulated,  "  behave  your- 
self." 

But  it  was  Leila  who  stopped  him.  Her  littie 
hands  held  him  off,  her  face  was  white.  "  Barry," 
she  whispered,  "  Bannry— please " 

Ke  dropped  her  hands. 

"  You  blessed  baby,"  he  said,  with  all  his  laughter 
gone.  "  You're  like  a  little  sweet  saint  in  an  altar 
shrine  I ' ' 

Then,  with  another  sudden  change  of  mood,  he 
whirled  her  away  as  quickly  as  he  had  come,  and 
Mary,  following,  stopped  on  the  threshold  to  say  to 
Roger : 

"  We  shall  all  be  away  to-morrow.  We  are  to  dine 
at  General  Dick's.  But  I  am  going  to  church  in  the 
morning — the  six  o'clock  service.  It's  lovely  with 
the  snow  and  the  stars.  There'll  be  just  Barry  and 
me.    Won't  you  come  ?  " 

He  hesitated.  Then,  **  No,"  he  said,  "  no,"  and 
lest  she  should  think  him  unappreciative,  he  added, 
"  I  never  go  to  church." 

92 


MART  BRINGS  CHRISTMAS 

She  came  back  to  him  and  stood  by  the  fire. 
"  Don't  you  believe  in  it  ?  "  She  was  plainly  troubled 
for  him.  "  Don't  you  believe  in  the  angels  and  the 
shepherds,  and  the  wise  men,  and  the  Babe  in  the 
Manger  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  dully,  "  I  don't  believe." 

"  Oh,"  it  was  almost  a  cry,  "  then  what  does  Christ- 
mas mean  to  you  ?  What  can  it  mean  to  anybody 
who  doesn't  believe  in  the  Babe  and  the  Star  in  the 
East?" 

"'  It  means  this,  Mary  Ballard,"  he  said,  impetu- 
ously, '*  that  out  of  all  my  unbelief — I  believe  in  you 
— in  your  friendliness.  And  that  is  my  star  shining 
just  now  in  the  darkness." 

She  would  have  been  less  than  a  woman  if  she  had 
not  been  thrilled  by  such  a  tribute.  So  she  blushed 
shyly.     "I'm  glad,"  she  said  and  smiled  up  at  him. 

But  as  she  went  down-stairs,  the  smile  faded.  It 
was  as  if  the  shadow  of  the  Tower  Rooms  were  upon 
her.  As  if  the  loneliness  and  sadness  of  Roger 
Poole  had  become  hers.  As  if  his  burden  was  added 
to  her  other  burdens. 

Aunt  Frances,  more  regal  than  ever  in  gold  and 
amethyst  brocade,  was  presiding  over  a  mountainous 
pile  of  white  boxes,  behind  which  the  unlighted  tree 
spread  its  branches. 

"  My  child,"  she  said  reprovingly,  as  Mary  en- 
tered, "  I  wonder  ii  you  were  ever  in  time  for  any* 
thing." 

93 


CONTRART  MART 

And  Porter  whispered  in  Mary's  ear  as  he  led  her 
to  the  piano  :  "Is  this  a  merry  Christmas  or  a  Con- 
trary-Mary Christmas  ?  You  look  as  if  you  had  the 
weight  of  the  world  on  your  shoulders." 

She  shook  her  head.  Tears  were  very  near  the 
surface.  He  saw  it  and  was  jealously  unhappy. 
What  had  brought  her  in  this  mood  from  the  Tower 
Rooms  ? 

And  now  Barry  turned  off  the  lights,  and  in  the 
darkness  Mary  struck  the  first  chords  and  began  to 
sing,  "Holy  Night " 

As  her  voice  throbbed  through  the  stillness,  little 
stars  shone  out  upon  the  tree  until  it  was  all  in  shin- 
ing glory. 

Up-stairs,  Roger  heard  Mary  singing.  He  went 
to  his  window  and  drew  back  the  curtains.  Outside 
the  world  was  wrapped  in  snow.  The  lights  from 
the  lower  windows  shone  on  the  fountain,  and  showed 
the  little  bronze  boy  in  a  winding  sheet  of  white. 

But  it  was  not  the  little  bronze  boy  that  Roger 
Poole  saw.  It  was  another  boy — himself — singing 
in  a  dim  church  in  a  big  city,  and  his  soul  was  in  the 
words.  And  when  he  knelt  to  pray,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  whole  world  prayed.  He  was  bathed 
in  reverence.  In  his  boyish  soul  there  was  no  hint 
of  unbelief — no  doubt  of  the  divine  mystery. 

He  saw  himself  again  in  a  church.  And  now  it 
was  he  who  spoke  to  the  people  of  the  Shepherds 
ftnd  the  Stai.     And  he  knew  that  he  was  making 

94 


MART  BRINGS  CHRISTMAS 

them  believe.  That  he  was  bringing  to  them  the  as- 
surance which  possessed  his  own  soul — and  again 
there  were  candles  on  the  altar,  and  again  he  sang, 
and  the  choir  boys  sang,  and  the  song  was  the  one 

that  Mary  Ballard  was  singing 

He  saw  himself  once  more  in  a  church.  But  this 
time  there  was  no  singing.  There  were  no  candles, 
no  light  except  such  as  came  faintly  through  the 
leaded  panes.  He  was  alone  in  the  dimness,  and  he 
stood  in  the  pulpit  and  looked  around  at  the  empty 
pews.  Then  the  light  went  out  behind  the  windows, 
and  he  knelt  in  the  darkness ;  but  not  to  pray.  His 
head  was  hidden  in  his  arms.  Since  then  he  had 
never  shed  a  tear,  and  he  had  never  gone  to  church. 


Mary's  song  was  followed  by  carols  in  which  the 
other  voices  joined — Porter's  and  Barry's  and  Leila's  ; 
General  Dick's  breathy  tenor,  Aunt  Isabelle's  quaver. 
Aunt  Frances'  dominant  note — with  Susan  Jenks  and 
the  colored  maid  who  helped  her  on  such  occasions, 
piping  up  like  two  melodious  blackbirds  in  the  hall. 

Then  General  Dick  played  Santa  Glaus,  handing 
out  the  parcels  with  felicitous  little  speeches. 

Constance  had  sent  a  big  box  from  London. 
There  were  fads  and  fripperies  from  Grace  Clenden- 
ning  in  Paris,  while  Aunt  Frances  had  evidently 
raided  Fifth  Avenue  and  had  brought  away  its  treas- 
ures. 

95 


CONTRART  MART 

"  It  looks  like  a  French  shop,"  said  Leila,  happy 
in  her  own  gifts  of  gloves  and  silk  stockings  and 
slipper  buckles  and  beads,  and  the  crowning  bliss  of 
a  little  pearl  heart  from  Barry. 

Porter's  offering  to  Mary  was  a  quaint  ring  set 
with  rose-cut  diamonds  and  emeralds. 

Aunt  Frances,  hovering  over  it,  exclaimed  at  its 
beauty.     "  It's  a  genuine  antique  ?  " 

He  admitted  that  it  was,  but  gave  no  further  ex- 
planation. 

Later,  however,  he  told  Mary,  "  It  was  my  grand- 
mother's. She  belonged  to  an  old  French  family. 
My  grandfather  met  her  when  he  was  in  the  dipio" 
matic  service.  He  was  an  Irishman,  and  it  is  from 
iiim  I  get  my  hair." 

•*  It's  a  lovely  thing.  But — Porter — it  mustn't 
bind  me  to  anything.     I  want  to  be  free." 

"  You  are  free.  Do  you  remember  when  you  were 
a  kiddie  that  I  gave  you  a  penny  ring  out  of  my  pop- 
corn bag?  You  didn't  think  that  ring  tied  you  to 
anything,  did  you  ?  Well,  this  is  just  another  penny 
prize  package." 

So  she  wore  it  on  her  right  hand  and  when  he 
said  '-  Good-night,"  he  lifted  the  hand  and  kissed  it. 

*'  Girl,  dear,  may  this  be  the  merriest  Christmas 
ever ! " 

And  now  the  tears  overflowed.  They  were  alone 
in  the  lower  hall  and  there  was  no  one  to  see.  "  Oh, 
Porter,"    she    wailed,    "I'm    missing   Constance — 

96 


MART  BRINGS  CHRISTMAS 

dreadfully — it  isn't  Christmas — without  her.     It  came 
over  me  all  at  once — when  I  was  trying  to  think  that 
was  happy." 

"  Poor  little  Contrary  Mary — if  you'd  only  let  me 
take  care  of  you." 

She  shook  her  head.  *'  I  didn't  mean  to  be — silly» 
Porter." 

"  You're  not  silly."  Then  after  a  silence,  "  ShaU 
you  go  to  early  service  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  May  I  go  ? »' 

"  Of  course.     Barry's  going,  too."j 

"  You  mean  that  you  won't  let  me  go  with  you 
alone." 

"  I  mean  nothing  of  the  kind.  Barry  always 
goes.  He  used  to  do  it  to  please  mother,  and  now 
he  does  it — for  remembrance." 

"  I'm  so  jealous  of  my  moments  alone  with  you. 
Why  can't  Leila  stay  with  you  to-night,  then  there 
will  be  four  of  us,  and  I  can  have  you  to  myself.  I 
can  bring  the  car,  if  you'd  rather." 

"  No,  I  like  to  walk.     It's  so  lovely  and  solemn." 

"  Be  sure  to  ask  Leila." 

She  promised,  and  he  went  away,  having  to  look 
in  at  a  dance  given  by  one  of  his  mother's  friends  ; 
and  Mary,  returning  to  join  the  others,  pondered,  a 
little  wistfully,  on  the  fact  that  Porter  Bigelow  should 
be  so  eager  for  a  privilege  which  Roger  Poole  had 
just  declined. 

ST 


CHAPTER  VII 

in  Which  Aunt  Frances  Speaks  of  Matrimony  as  a 
Fixed  Institution  and  is  Met  by  Flaming  Argu- 
ments ;  and  in  Which  a  Strange  Voice  Sings 
upon  the  Stairs. 

AUNT  FRANCES  stayed  until  after  the  New 
Year.     But  before  she  went  she  sounded  Aunt 
Isabelle. 

'*  Has  Mary  said  an3rthing  to  you  about  Porter 
Bigelow  ?  " 

"  About  Porter  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  impatiently,  "  about  marrying  him.  Any- 
body can  see  that  he's  dead  in  love  with  her, 
Isabelle." 

*'  I  don't  think  Mary  wants  to  marry  anybody. 
She's  an  independent  little  creature.  She  should 
have  been  the  boy,  Frances." 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  she  had,"  Aunt  Frances'  tone 
was  fervent.  "  I  can't  see  any  future  for  Barry,  un- 
less he  marries  Leila.  If  he  were  not  so  irrespon- 
sible, I  might  do  something  for  him.  But  Barry  is 
such  a  will-o'-the-wisp." 

Aunt  Isabelle  went  on  with  her  mending,  and  Aunt 
Frances  again  pounced  upon  her. 

98 


AUNT  FRANCES  SPEAKS 

"And  it  isn't  just  that  he  is  irresponsible.    He's 

Did  you  notice  on  Christmas  Day,  Isabelle — that 
after  dinner  he  wasn't  himself  ?  " 

Aunt  Isabelle  had  noticed.  And  it  was  not  the 
first  time.  Her  quick  eyes  had  seen  things  which 
Mary  had  thought  were  hidden.  She  had  not  needed 
ears  to  tell  the  secret  which  was  being  kept  from  her 
in  that  house. 

Yet  her  sense  of  loyalty  sealed  her  lips.  She 
would  not  tell  Frances  anything.  They  were  dear 
children. 

"  He's  just  a  boy,  Frances,"  she  said,  deprecat- 
ingly,  "  and  I  am  sorry  that  General  Dick  put  temp- 
tation in  his  way." 

"  Don't  blame  the  General.  If  Barry's  weak,  no 
one  can  make  him  strong  but  himself.  I  wish  he  had 
some  of  Porter  Bigelow's  steadiness.  Mary  won't 
look  at  Porter,  and  he's  dead  in  love  with  her." 

"  Perhaps  in  time  she  may." 

"  Mary's  like  her  father,"  Aunt  Frances  said 
shortly.  "  John  Ballard  might  have  been  rich  when 
he  died,  if  he  hadn't  been  such  a  dreamer.  Mary 
calls  herself  practical — but  her  head  is  full  of  moon- 
shine." 

Aunt  Frances  made  this  arraignment  with  an  un- 
comfortable memory  of  a  conversation  with  Mary  the 
day  before.  They  had  been  shopping,  and  had 
lunched  together  at  a  popular  tea  room.  It  was  while 
they  sat  in  their  secluded  comer  that  Aunt  Frances 

99 


CONTRART  MART 

had  introduced  in  a  roundabout  way  the  topic  which 
obsessed  her. 

"  I  am  glad  that  Constance  is  so  happy,  Mary." 

"  She  ought  to  be,"  Mary  responded ;  "  it's  her 
honeymoon." 

"  If  you  would  follow  her  example  and  marry 
Porter  Bigelow,  my  mind  would  be  at  rest." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  marry  Porter,  Aunt  Frances. 
I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody." 

Aunt  Frances  raised  her  gold  lorgnette.  "  If  you 
don't  marry,"  she  demanded,  "  how  do  you  expect  to 
live  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  mean  who  is  going  to  pay  your  bills  for  the  rest 
of  your  life  ?  Barry  isn't  making  enough  to  support 
you,  and  I  can't  imagine  that  you'd  care  to  be 
dependent  on  Gordon  Richardson.  And  the  house 
is  rapidly  losing  its  value.  The  neighborhood  isn't 
what  it  was  when  your  father  bought  it,  and  you 
can't  rent  rooms  when  nobody  wants  to  come  out 
here  to  live.  And  then  what?  It's  a  woman's 
place  to  marry  when  she  meets  a  man  who  can 
take  care  of  her — ^and  you'll  find  that  you  can't 
pick  Porter  Bigelows  off  every  bush — not  in  Wash- 
ington." 

Thus  spoke  Worldly-Wisdom,  not  mincing  words, 
Hnd  back  came  Youth  and  Romance,  passionately. 
"  Aunt  Frances,  a  woman  hasn't  any  right  to  marry 
;»st  because  she  thinks  it  is  her  best  chance.     She 

loo 


AUNT  FRANCES  SPEAKS 

hasn't  any  right  to  make  a  man  feel  that  he's  won  her 
when  she's  just  Httle  and  mean  and  mercenary." 

"  That  sounds  all  right,"  said  the  indignant  dame 
opposite  her,  "  but  as  I  said  before,  if  you  don't 
marry, — what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

Faced  by  that  cold  question,  Mary  met  it  defiantly^ 
"If  the  worst  comes,  I  can  work.  Other  women 
work." 

"You  haven't  the  training  or  the  experience,*' 
Aunt  Frances  told  her  coldly  ;  "  don't  be  silly,  Mary. 
You  couldn't  earn  your  shoe-strings." 

And  thus  having  said  all  there  was  to  be  said,  the 
two  ate  their  salad  with  diminished  appetite,  and  rode 
home  in  a  taxi  in  stiff  silence. 

Aunt  Frances'  mind  roamed  back  to  Aunt  Isabelle, 
and  fixed  on  her  as  a  scapegoat.  "  She's  like  you, 
Isabelie,"  she  said,  "  with  just  the  difference  between 
the  ideals  of  twenty  years  ago  and  to-day.  You 
haven't  either  of  you  an  idea  of  the  world  as  a  real 
place — you  make  romance  the  rule  of  your  lives — 
and  I'd  like  to  know  what  you've  gotten  out  of  it,  or 
what  she  will." 

"  I'm  not  afraid  for  Mary."  There  was  a  defiant 
ring  in  Aunt  Isabelle's  voice  which  amazed  Aunt 
FranceSo  "  She'll  make  things  come  right.  She  has 
what  I  never  had,  Frances.  She  has  strength  and 
courage." 

It  was  this  conversation  with  Aunt  Frances  which 
loi 


CONTRART  MART 

caused  Mary,  in  the  weeks  that  followed,  to  bend  for 
hours  over  a  yellow  pad  on  which  she  made  queei 
hieroglyphics.  And  it  was  through  these  hiero- 
glyphics that  she  entered  upon  a  new  phase  of  her 
friendship  with  Roger  Poole. 

He  had  gone  to  work  one  morning,  haggard  after 
a  sleepless  night. 

As  he  approached  the  Treasury,  the  big  building 
seemed  to  loom  up  before  him  like  a  prison.  What, 
after  all,  were  those  thousands  who  wended  their 
way  every  morning  to  the  great  beehives  of  Uncle 
Sam  but  slaves  chained  to  an  occupation  which  was 
deadening  ? 

He  flung  the  question  later  at  the  little  stenogra- 
pher who  sat  next  to  him.  "  Miss  Terry,"  he  asked, 
"  how  long  have  you  been  here  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him,  brightly.  She  was  short 
and  thin,  with  a  sprinkle  of  gray  in  her  hair.  But 
she  was  well-groomed  and  nicely  dressed  in  her 
mannish  silk  shirt  and  gray  tailored  skirt. 

"  Twenty  years,"  she  said,  snapping  a  rubber  band 
about  her  note-book. 

"  And  always  at  this  desk  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no.  I  came  in  at  nine  hundred,  and 
now  I  am  getting  twelve  hundred." 

'*  But  always  in  this  room  ?" 

She  nodded.  "  Yes.  And  it  is  very  nice.  Most 
of  the  people  have  been  here  as  long  as  I,  and  some 
of   them    much    longer     There's    Major    Orr,   for 

I02 


AUNT  FRANCES  SPEAKS 

example,  he  has  been  here  since  just  after  the 
War." 

"Do  you  ever  feel  as  if  you  were  serving-  sen- 
tence ?  " 

She  laughed.  She  was  not  troubled  by  a  vivid 
imagination.  "It  really  isn't  bad  for  a  woman. 
There  aren't  many  places  with  as  short  hours  and  as 
good  pay." 

For  a  woman  ?  But  for  a  man  ?  He  turned  back 
to  his  desk.  What  would  he  be  after  twenty  years 
of  this  ?  He  waked  every  morning  with  the  day's 
routine  facing  him — knowing  that  not  once  in  the 
eight  hours  would  there  be  a  demand  upon  his  men- 
tality, not  once  would  there  be  the  thrill  of  real  ac- 
complishment. 

At  noon  when  he  saw  Miss  Terry  strew  bird  seed  on 
the  broad  window  sill  for  the  sparrows,  he  likened  it 
to  the  diversions  of  a  prisoner  in  his  cell.  And,  when 
he  ate  lunch  with  a  group  of  fellow  clerks  in  a  cheap 
restaurant  across  the  way,  he  wondered,  as  they  went 
back,  why  they  were  spared  the  lockstep. 

In  this  mood  he  left  the  office  at  half-past  four,  and 
passing  the  place  where  he  usually  ate,  inexpensively, 
he  entered  a  luxurious  up-town  hotel.  There  he  read 
the  papers  until  half-past  six  ;  then  dined  in  a  grill 
room  which  permitted  informal  dress. 

Coming  out  later,  he  met  Barry  coming  in,  linked 
arm  in  arm  with  two  radiant  youths  of  his  own  kind 
and   class.     Musketeers   of  modernity,   they  found 

103 


CONTRART  MART 

their  adventures  on  the  city  streets,  in  cafes  and 
cabarets,  instead  of  in  field  and  forest  and  on  the 
battle-field 

Barry^  with  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  welcomed 
Roger  uproariously.  "  Here's  Whittington,"  he  said 
*•  You  ought  to  hear  his  poem,  fellows,  about  a  little 
cat.     He  had  us  all  hypnotized  the  other  night." 

Roger  glanced  at  him  sharply.  His  exaggerated 
manner,  the  looseness  of  his  phrasing,  the  flush  on 
his  cheeks  were  in  strange  contrast  to  his  usual 
frank,  clean  boyishness. 

"  Come  on,  Poole,"  Barry  urged,  "  we'll  motor  out 
in  Jerry's  car  to  the  Country  Club,  and  you  can  give 
it  to  us  out  there — about  Whittington  and  the  little 
cat." 

Roger  declined,  and  Barry  took  quick  offense. 
"Oh,  well,  if  you  don't  want  to,  you  needn't,"  he 
said  ;  "  four's  a  crowd,  anyhow — come  on,  fellows." 

Roger,  vaguely  troubled,  watched  him  until  he 
was  lost  in  the  crowd,  then  sighed  and  turned  his 
steps  homeward. 

As  Roger  ascended  to  his  Tower,  the  house  seemed 
strangely  silent.  Pittiwitz  was  asleep  beside  the  pot 
of  pink  hyacinths.  She  sat  up,  yawned,  and  wel- 
comed him  with  a  little  coaxing  note.  When  he  had 
Setded  himself  in  his  big  chair,  she  came  and  curled 
an  the  comer  of  his  arm,  and  again  went  to  sleep. 

Deep  in  his  reading,  he  was  roused  an  hour  later 
by  a  knock  at  his  door. 

104 


AUNT  FRANCES  SPEAKS 

He  opened  it,  to  find  Mary  on  the  threshold. 

**  May  I  come  in  ? "  she  asked,  and  she  seemed 
breathless.  "  It  is  Susan's  night  out,  and  Aunt  Isa- 
belle  is  at  the  opera  with  some  old  friends.  Barry  ex- 
pected to  be  here  with  me,  but  he  hasn't  come.  And 
1  sat  in  the  dining-room — and  waited,"  she  shivered, 
"  until  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  more." 

She  tried  to  laugh,  but  he  saw  that  she  was  very 
pale. 

"  Please  don't  think  I'm  a  coward,"  she  begged. 
"  I've  never  been  that.  But  I  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  a  sort  of  nervous  panic,  and  I  thought  perhaps 
you  wouldn't  mind  if  I  sat  with  you — until  Barry — 
came " 

"I'm  glad  he  didn't  come,  if  it  is  going  to  give  me 
an  evening  with  you."     He  drew  a  chair  to  the  fire. 

They  had  talked  of  many  things  when  she  asked, 
suddenly,  "  Mr.  Poohs,  I  wonder  if  you  can  tell  me 
— about  the  examinations  for  stenographers  in  the 
Departments — are  they  very  rigid  ?  " 

"  Not  very.  Of  course  they  require  speed  and 
accuracy." 

She  sighed.  "  I'm  accurate  enough,  but  I  wonder 
if  I  can  ever  acquire  speed." 

He  stared.     "  You ?  " 

She  nodded.  "  I  haven't  mentioned  it  to  any  one. 
One's  family  is  so  hampering  sometimes — they'd  all 
object— except  Aunt  Isabelle,  but  I  want  to  be  pre- 
pared to  work,  if  I  ever  need  to  earn  my  living." 

105 


CONTRJIRT  MART 

"  May  you  never  need  it,*'  he  said,  fervently,  vi- 
sions rising  of  little  Miss  Terry  and  her  machine-made 
personality.  What  had  this  girl  with  the  fair  hair 
and  the  shining  eyes  to  do  with  the  blank  life  be- 
tween office  walls  ? 

"  May  you  never  need  it,"  he  repeated.  "  A 
woman's  place  is  in  the  home — it's  a  man's  place  to 
fight  the  world." 

"  But  if  there  isn't  a  man  to  fight  a  woman's  bat- 
tles?" 

"  There  will  always  be  some  one  to  fight  yours." 

"  You  mean  that  I  can — marry  ?  But  what  if  I 
don't  care  to  marry  merely  to  be — supported  ?  " 

"  There  would  have  to  be  other  things,  of  course," 
gravely. 

"  What,  for  example  ?  " 

"  Love." 

"  You  mean  the  *  honor  and  obey '  kind  ?  But  1 
don't  want  that  when  I  marry.  I  want  a  man  to  say 
to  me,  •  Come,  let  us  fight  the  battle  together.  If 
it's  defeat,  we'll  go  down  together.  If  it's  victory, 
we'll  win." 

This  was  to  him  a  strange  language,  yet  there  was 
that  about  it  whi^H  thrilled  him. 

Yet  he  insisted,  dogmatically,  "  There  are  men 
enough  in  the  world  to  take  care  of  the  women,  and 
the  women  should  let  them." 

"  No,  they  sfiould  "not.  Suppose  I  should  not 
marry.     Must  I  let  Barry  take  care  of  me,  or  Con- 

io6 


AUNT  FRANCES  SPEAKS 

stance — and  go  on  as  Aunt  Isabelle  has,  eating  the 
bread  of  dependence  ?  " 

"  But  you  ?  Why,  one  only  needs  to  look  at  you 
to  know  that  there'll  be  a  live-happy-ever-after  end- 
ing to  your  romance." 

"  That's  what  they  thought  about  Aunt  Isabelle. 
But  she  lost  her  lover,  and  she  couldn't  love  again. 
And  if  she  had  had  an  absorbing  occupation,  she 
would  have  been  saved  so  much  humiliation,  so 
much  heart-break." 

She  told  him  the  story  with  its  touching  pathos. 
"  And  think  of  it,"  she  ended,  "  right  here  in  our 
garden  by  the  fountain,  she  saw  him  for  the  last 
time." 

Chilled  by  the  ghostly  breath  of  dead  romance, 
they  sat  for  a  while  in  silence,  then  Mary  said  :  "  So 
that's  why  I'm  trying  to  learn  something — that  will 
have  an  earning  value.  I  can  sing  and  play  a  little, 
but  not  enough  to  make — money." 

She  sighed,  and  he  set  himself  to  help  her. 

"The  quickest  way,"  he  said,  "to  acquire  speed, 
is  to  have  some  one  read  to  you." 

"  Aunt  Isabelle  does  sometimes,  but  it  tires  her." 

"  Let  me  do  it.     I  should  never  tire." 

'*  Oh,  wouldn't  you  mind  ?  Could  we  practice  a 
litde — now  ?  " 

And  so  it  began — the  friendship  in  which  he  served 
her,  and  loved  the  serving. 

He  read,  slowly,  liking  to  see,  when  he  raised  his 

107 


CONTRART  MART 

eyos,  the  slim  white  figure  in  the  big  chair^  the  fire- 
light on  the  absorbed  face. 

Thus  the  time  slipped  by,  until  with  a  start,  Mary 
looked  up. 

"  I  don't  see  what  is  keeping  Barry." 

Then  Roger  told  her  what  he  had  been  reluctant 
to  tell.  "  I  saw  him  down-town.  I  think  he  was  on 
his  way  to  the  Country  Club.  He  had  been  dining 
with  some  friends." 

"  Men  friends  ?  " 

"  Yes.     He  called  one  of  them  Jerry." 

He  saw  the  color  rise  in  her  face.  "  I  hate  Jerry 
Tuckerman,  and  Barry  promised  Constance  he'd  let 
those  boys  alone." 

Her  voice  had  a  sharp  note  in  it,  but  he  saw  that 
she  was  struggling  with  a  gripping  fear. 

This,  then,  was  the  burden  she  was  bearing  ?  And 
what  a  brave  little  thing  she  was  to  face  the  world 
with  her  head  up. 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  me  call  the  Country 
Club — I  might  be  able  to  get  your  brother  on  the 
wire." 

"  Oh;  if  you  would." 

But  he  was  saved  the  trouble.  For,  even  while 
they  spoke  of  him,  Barry  came,  and  Mary  went 
down  to  him. 

A  little  later,  there  were  stumbling  steps  upon  the 
stairs,  and  a  voice  was  singing — a  strange  song,  in 
which  each  verse  ended  with  a  shout 


AUNT  FRANCES  SPEAKS 

Roger,  stepping  out  into  the  dark  upper  hall,  looked 
down  over  the  railing.  Mary,  a  slender  shrinking 
figure,  was  coming  with  her  brother  up  the  lower 
flight.  Barry  had  his  arm  around  her,  but  her  face 
was  turned  from  him,  and  her  head  drooped. 

Then,  still  looking  down,  Roger  saw  her  guide 
those  stumbling  steps  to  the  threshold  of  the  boy's 
room.  The  door  opened  and  shut,  and  she  was 
alone,  but  from  within  there  still  came  the  shouted 
words  of  that  strange  song. 

Mary  stood  for  a  moment  with  her  hands  clenched 
at  her  sides,  then  turned  and  laid  her  face  against 
the  closed  door  her  eyes  hidden  by  her  upraised  arm. 


Sim 


CHAPTER  VIII 

In  Which  Little-Lovely  Leila  Sees  a  Picture  in  an 
Unexpected  Place ;  and  in  Which  Perfect  Faith 
Speaks  Triumphantly  Over  the  Telephone. 

WHATEVER  Delilah  Jelifle  might  lack,  it  was 
not  originality.  The  apartment  which  she 
chose  for  her  winter  in  Washington  was  like  any 
other  apartment  when  she  went  into  it,  but  the 
changes  which  she  made — the  things  which  she 
added  and  the  things  which  she  took  away,  stamped 
it  at  once  with  her  own  individuality. 

The  peacock  screen  before  the  fireplace,  the 
cushions  of  sapphire  and  emerald  and  old  gold  on 
the  couch,  the  mantel  swept  of  all  ornament  except 
a  seven-branched  candlestick  ;  these  created  the  first 
impression.  Then  one's  eyes  went  to  an  antique 
table  on  which  a  crystal  ball,  upborne  by  three 
bronze  monkeys,  seemed  to  gather  to  itself  mys- 
teriously all  the  glow  of  firelight  and  candlelight 
and  rich  color.  At  the  other  end  of  the  table  was  a 
low  bowl,  filled  always  with  small  saffron-hued  roses. 

In  this  room,  one  morning,  late  in  Lent,  Leila 
Dick  sat,  looking  as  out  of  place  as  an  English  daisy 
in  a  tropical  jungle. 

i£0 


A  PICTURE 

Leila  did  not  like  the  drawn  curtains  and  the 
dimness.  Outside  the  sun  was  shining,  gloriously, 
and  the  sky  was  a  deep  and  lovely  blue. 

She  was  glad  when  Lilah  sent  for  her. 

"  You  are  to  come  right  to  her  room,"  the  maid 
announced. 

"  Heavens,  child,"  said  the  Delilah-beauty,  who 
was  combing  her  hair,  "  I  didn't  promise  to  be  up 
with  the  birds." 

"The  birds  were  up  long  ago."  Leila  perched 
herself  on  an  old  English  love-seat  "  We're  to  have 
lunch  before  we  go  to  Fort  Myer,  and  it  is  almost 
one  now." 

Lilah  yawned,  "  Is  it  ?  "  and  went  on  combing  her 
hair  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  hours  before  her. 
She  wore  a  silken  negligee  of  flamingo  red  which 
matched  her  surroundings,  for  this  room  was  as 
flaming  as  the  other  was  subdued.  Yet  the  effect 
was  not  that  of  crude  color ;  it  was,  rather,  that  of 
color  intensified  deliberately  to  produce  a  contrast. 
Delilah's  bedroom  was  high  noon  under  a  blaz- 
ing sun,  the  sitting-room  was  midnight  under  the 
stars. 

With  her  black  hair  at  last  twisted  into  wonderful 
coils,  Delilah  surveyed  her  face  reflectively  in  the 
mirror,  and  having  decided  that  she  needed  no  fur- 
ther aid  from  the  small  jars  on  her  dressing  table, 
she  turned  to  her  friend. 

"  What  shall  I  wear,  Leila?" 

117. 


CONTRART  MART 

"If  I  told  you,"  was  the  calm  response,  "you 
wouldn't  wear  it." 

Delilah  laughed.  "  No,  I  wouldn't.  I  simply  have 
to  think  such  things  out  for  myself.  But  I  meant, 
what  kind  of  clothes — dress  up  or  motor  things  ?  " 

"  Porter  will  take  us  out  in  his  car.  You'll  need 
your  heavy  coat,  and  something  good-looking  under- 
neath, for  lunch,  you  know." 

"  Is  Mary  Ballard  going  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  We  shouldn't  get  Porter's  car  if  she 
weren't." 

"  Mary  wasn't  with  us  the  day  we  had  tea  with 
him  in  the  Park." 

"  No,  but  she  was  asked.  Porter  never  leaves  her 
out." 

"  Are  they  engaged  ?  " 

"  No,  Mary  won't  be." 

"She'll  never  get  a  better  chance,"  Delilah  re- 
flected. "  She  isn't  pretty,  and  she's  rather  old 
style." 

Leila  blazed.     "  She's  beautiful " 

"  To  you,  duckie,  because  you  love  her.  But  the 
average  man  wouldn't  call  Mary  Ballard  beautiful." 

"  I  don't  care — the  un-average  one  would.  And 
Mary  Ballard  wouldn't  look  at  an  ordinary  man, 

"  No  man  is  ordinary  when  he  is  in  love." 

'*  Oh,  with  you,"  Leila's  tone  was  scornful,  "  love  s 
just  a  game." 

Lilah  rose,  crossed  the  room  with  swift  steps,  and 


A  PICTURE 

kissed  her.  "  Don't  let  me  ruffle  your  plumage, 
Jenny  Wren,"  she  said ;  "  I'm  a  screaming  peacock 
this  morning," 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  I'm  not  the  perfect  success  I  planned  to  be.  Oh, 
I  can  see  it.  I've  been  here  for  three  months,  and 
people  stare  at  me,  but  they  don't  call  on  me — not 
the  ones  I  want  to  know.  And  it's  because  I  am 
too— emphasized.  In  New  York  you  have  to  be 
emphatic  to  be  anything  at  all.  Otherwise  you  are 
lost  in  the  crowd.  That's  why  Fifth  Avenue  is  full 
of  people  in  startling  clothes.  In  the  mob  you  won't 
be  singled  out  simply  for  your  pretty  face — there 
are  too  many  pretty  faces ;  so  it  is  the  woman  who 
strikes  some  high  note  of  conspicuousness  who  at- 
tracts attention.  But  you're  like  a  flock  of  cooing 
doves,  you  Washington  girls.  You're  as  natural 
and  frank  and  unaffected  as  a — a  covey  of  partridges. 
I  believe  1  am  almost  jealous  of  your  Mary  Ballard 
this  morning." 

"  Not  because  of  Porter  ?  " 

"  Not  because  of  any  man.  But  there  are  things 
about  her  which  I  can't  acquire.  I've  the  money 
and  the  clothes  and  the  individuality.  But  there's  a 
simplicity  about  her,  a  directness,  that  comes  from 
years  of  association  with  things  I  haven't  had.  Be- 
fore I  came  here,  I  thought  money  could  buy  any- 
thing. But  it  can't.  Mary  Ballard  couldn't  be  any- 
thing else.     And  I — I  can  be  anything  from  a  siren 

113 


CONTRART  MART 

:.0  a  soubrette,  but  I  can't  be  a  lady — not  the  kind 
that  you  are — and  Mary  Ballard." 

Saying  which,  the  tropic  creature  in  flamingo  red 
sat  down  beside  the  cooing  dove,  and  continued : 

"You  were  right  just  now,  when  you  said  that  the 
un-average  man  would  love  Mary  Ballard.  Porter 
Bigelow  loves  her,  and  he  tops  all  the  other  men  I've 
met.  And  he'd  never  love  me.  He  will  laugh  with 
me  and  joke  with  me,  and  if  he  wasn't  in  love  with 
Mary,  he  might  flirt  with  me — but  I'm  not  his  kind 
— and  he  knows  it." 

She  sighed  and  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  There 
are  other  fish  in  the  sea,  of  course,  and  Porter  Bige- 
low is  Mary's.  But  I  give  you  my  word,  Leila  Dick, 
that  when  I  catch  sight  of  his  blessed  red  head  tow- 
ering above  the  others — like  a  lion-hearted  Richard, 
I  can't  see  anybody  else." 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  known  her,  Leila 
was  drawn  to  the  other  by  a  feeling  of  sympathetic 
understanding. 

"  Are  you  in  love  with  him,  Lilah  ? "  she  asked, 
timidly. 

Lilah  stood  up,  stretching  her  hands  above  her 
head.  "  Who  knows  ?  Being  in  love  and  loving — 
perhaps  they  are  different  things,  duckie." 

With  which  oracular  remark  she  adjourned  to  her 
dressing-room,  where,  in  long  rows,  her  lovely 
gowns  were  hung. 

Leila,  left  alone,  picked  up  a  magazine  on  the  table 

114 


A  PICTURE 

beside  her  glanced  through  it  and  laid  it  down; 
picked  a  bonbon  daintily  out  of  a  big  box  and  ate 
it ;  picked  up  a  photograph 

'•  Mousie/'  said  Lilah,  coming  back,  several  min- 
utes later,  "  what  makes  you  so  still  ?  Did  you  find 
a  book?" 

No,  Leila  had  not  found  a  book,  and  the  photo- 
graph  was  back  where  she  had  first  discovered  it, 
face  downward  under  the  box  of  chocolates.  And 
she  was  now  standing  by  the  window,  her  veil 
drawn  tightly  over  her  close  little  hat,  so  that  one 
might  not  read  the  trouble  in  her  telltale  eyes.  The 
daisy  drooped  now,  as  if  withered  by  the  blazing 
sun. 

But  Delilah  saw  nothing  of  the  change.  She  wore 
a  saffron-hued  coat,  which  matched  the  roses  in  the 
other  room,  and  her  leopard  skins,  with  a  small  hat 
of  the  same  fur. 

As  she  surveyed  herself  finally  in  the  long  glass, 
she  flung  out  the  somewhat  caustic  remark : 

"  When  I  get  down-stairs  and  look  at  Mary  Bal- 
lard, I  shall  feel  like  a  Beardsley  poster  propped  up 
beside  a  Helleu  etching." 

After  lunch,  Porter  took  Aunt  Isabelle  and  Barry 
and  the  three  girls  to  Fort  Myer.  The  General  and 
Mr.  Jeliffe  met  them  at  the  drill  hall,  and  as  they  en- 
tered there  came  to  them  the  fresh  fragrance  of  the 
tan  bark. 

As  the  others  filed  into  their  seats,  Barry  h<?ld 

115 


CONTRART  MART 

Leila  back.  "We  will  sit  at  the  end,"  he  said  "I 
want  to  talk  to  you." 

Through  her  veil,  her  eyes  reproached  him. 

"  No,"  she  said  ;  "  no." 

He  looked  down  at  her  in  surprise.  Never  before 
had  Little-Lovely  Leila  refused  the  offer  of  his  val- 
uable society. 

"You  sit  beside — Delilah,"  she  said,  nervously. 
"  She's  really  your  guest." 

"She  is  Porter's  guest,"  he  declared.  "I  don't 
see  why  you  want  to  turn  her  over  to  me.''  Then 
as  she  endeavored  to  pass  him,  he  caught  her 
arm. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  demanded, 

"  Nothing,"  faintly. 

"  Nothing ''  scornfully.     "I  can  read  you  like 

a  book.     What's  happened  ?  *'" 

But  she  merely  shook  her  head  and  sat  down,  and 
then  the  bugle  sounded,  and  the  band  began  to  play, 
and  in  came  the  cavalry — a  gallant  company,  through 
the  sun-lighted  door,  charging  in  a  thundering  line 
toward  the  reviewing  stand — to  stop  short  in  a  per- 
fect and  sudden  salute. 

The  drill  followed,  with  men  riding  bareback,  men 
riding  four  abreast,  men  riding  in  pyramids,  men 
turning  somersaults  on  their  trained  and  intelligent 
steeds. 

One  man  slipped,  fell  from  his  horse,  and  lay  close 
in  the  tan  bark,  while  the  other  horses  went  over 

Ii6 


A  PICTURE 

him,  without  a  hoof  touching,  so  that  he  rose  unhurt, 
and  took  his  place  again  in  the  Hne. 

Leila  hid  her  eyes  in  her  muff.  "  I  don't  like  it," 
she  said.  "  I've  never  liked  it.  And  what  if  that 
man  had  been  killed?" 

"  They  don't  get  killed,"  said  Barry  easily.  "  The 
hospital  is  full  of  those  who  get  hurt,  but  it  is  good 
for  them  ;  it  teaches  them  to  be  cool  and  competent 
when  real  danger  comes." 

And  now  came  the  artillery,  streaming  through  that 
sun-lighted  entrance,  the  heavy  wagons  a  feather- 
weight to  the  strong,  galloping  horses.  Breathless 
Leila  watched  their  manoeuvres,  as  they  wheeled  and 
circled  and  crisscrossed  in  spaces  which  seemed  im- 
possibly small — horses  plunging,  gun-wagons  rat- 
tling,  dust    flying — faster,    faster Again    she 

shut  her  eyes. 

But  Mary  Ballard,  cheeks  flushed,  eyes  dancing, 
turned  to  Porter.     "  Don't  you  love  it?"  she  asked. 

"  I  love  you "  audaciously.     "  Mary,  you  and 

I  were  born  in  the  wrong  age.  We  belong  to  the 
days  of  King  Arthur.  Then  I  could  have  worn  a 
coat  of  mail  and  have  stormed  your  castle,  and  1 
shouldn't  have  cared  if  you  hurled  defiance  from  the 
top  turret.  I'd  have  known  that,  at  last,  you'd  be 
forced  to  let  down  the  drawbridge ;  and  I  would 
have  crossed  the  moat  and  taken  you  prisoner,  and 
you'd  have  been  so  impressed  with  my  strength  and 

prowess  that  you  would " 

117 


CONTRART  MART 

"  No,  I  wouldn't,"  said  Mary  quickly. 

"  Wait  till  I  finish,"  said  Porter,  coolly.  '*  I'd  have 
shut  you  up  in  a  tower,  and  every  night  I'd  have 
come  and  sung  beneath  your  window,  and  at  last 
you'd  have  dropped  a  red  rose  down  to  me." 

They  were  laughing  together  now,  and  Delilah  on 
the  other  side  of  Porter  demanded,  "  What's  the 
joke  ?  " 

"  There  isn't  any,"  said  Porter  ;  "  it  is  all  deadly 
earnest — for  me,  if  not  for  Mary." 

And  now  a  horse  was  down  ;  there  was  a  quick 
bugle-note,  silence.  Like  clockwork,  everything  had 
stopped. 

People  were  asking,  "  Is  anybody  hurt  ?  " 

Barry  looked  down  at  Leila.  Then  he  leaned 
toward  her  father.  "I'm  going  to  take  this  child  out- 
side," he  said  ;  "  she's  as  white  as  a  sheet.  She 
doesn't  like  it.     We  will  meet  you  all  later." 

Leila's  color  came  back  in  the  sunshine  and  air  and 
she  insisted  that  Barry  should  return  to  the  hall. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  miss  it,"  she  said,  "  just  be- 
cause I  am  so  silly-  I  can  stay  in  Porter's  car  and 
wait." 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  it — it's  an  old  story  to  me.'' 

So  they  walked  on  toward  Arlington,  entering  at 
last  the  gate  which  leads  into  that  wonderful  city  of 
the  nation's  Northern  dead,  which  was  once  the  home 
of  Southern  hospitality.  In  a  sheltered  corner  they 
sat  down  and  Barry  smiled  at  Litde- Lovely  Leila. 

ii8 


A  PICTURE 

•*  Are  you  all  right  now,  kiddie  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  but  she  did  not  smile. 

He  bent  down  and  peered  through  her  veil 
**  Take  it  off  and  let  me  look  at  your  eyes." 

With  trembling  hands,  she  took  out  a  pin  or  two 
and  let  it  fall. 

"  You've  been  crying." 

"  Oh,  Barry,"  the  words  were  a  cry — the  cry  of  a 
little  wounded  bird. 

He  stopped  smiling.  "Blessed  one,  what  is 
it?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  You  must." 

"  No." 

A  low-growing  magnolia  hid  them  from  the  rest  of 
the  world  ;  he  put  masterful  hands  on  her  shoulders 
and  turned  her  face  toward  him — her  little  unhappy 
face. 

"  Now  tell  me." 

She  shook  herself  free.    "  Don't,  Barry." 

He  flushed  suddenly  and  sensitively.  "  I  know 
I'm  not  much  of  a  fellow." 

She  answered  with  a  dignity  which  seemed  to  sur- 
mount her  usual  childishness,  "  Barry,  if  a  man 
wants  a  woman  to  believe  in  him,  he's  got  to  make 
himself  worthy  of  it." 

"  Well,"  defiantly,  "  what  have  I  done  ?  '' 

"■  Don't  you  know  ?  " 

«  No-o." 

119 


CO  NT R  ART  MART 

**  Then  I'll  tell  you.  Yes,  I  will  tell  you,"  with 
sudden  courage.  "  I  was  at  Delilah's  this  morning, 
and  I  saw  your  picture,  and  what  you  had  written 
on  it " 

He  stared  at  her,  with  a  sense  of  surging  relief. 
If  it  was  only  that  he  had  to  explain  about — Lilah. 
A  smile  danced  in  his  eyes. 

«  Well  ?  " 

"  I  know  you  like  to — play  the  game — but  I  didn't 
think  you'd  go  as  far  as  that " 

"How  far?" 

"  Oh,  you  know." 

"  I  don't" 

"Barry/" 

"  I  don't  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  you  mean, 
Leila." 

•'  I  will."  Her  eyes  were  not  reproachful  now, 
they  were  blazing.  She  had  risen,  and  with  her 
hands  tucked  into  her  muff,  and  her  veil  blowing 
about  her  flushed  cheeks,  she  made  her  accusation. 
"  You  wrote  on  that  picture,  '  To  the  One  Girl — 
Forever.'  Is  that  the  way  you  think  of  Delilah, 
Barry  ?  " 

"  No.  It  is  the  way  I  think  of  you.  And  how  did 
that  picture  happen  to  be  in  Delilah's  possession  ? 
I  sent  it  to  you." 

"  To  me  ?  " 

•'  Yes,  I  took  it  over  to  you  yesterday,  and  left  it 
with  one  of  the  maids — a  new  one.     I  intended  to  go 

I20 


WHAT   HAVE   I    DONE 


A  PICTURE 

in  and  g^ve  it  to  you,  but  when  she  said  you  had 
callers,  I  handed  her  the  package " 

"  And  I  thought — oh,  Barry,  what  else  could  I 
think?" 

She  was  so  little  and  lovely  in  her  tender  contri- 
tion, that  he  flung  discretion  to  the  winds.  "  You 
are  to  think  only  one  thing,"  he  said,  passionately, 
*'  that  I  love  you — not  anybody  else,  not  ever  any- 
body else.  I  haven't  dared  put  it  into  words  before. 
I  haven't  dared  ask  you  to  marry  me,  because  I 
haven't  anything  to  offer  you  yet.  But  I  thought 
you — knew " 

Her  little  hand  went  out  to  him.  "  Oh,  Barry," 
she  whispered,  "  do  you  really  feel  that  way  about 
me?" 

"  Yes.  More  than  I  have  said.  More  than  I  can 
ever  say." 

He  drew  her  down  beside  him  on  the  bench. 
"  Our  world  won't  want  us  to  get  married,  Leila ; 
iihey  will  say  that  I  am  such  a  boy.  But  you  will  be- 
lieve in  me,  dear  one  ?  " 

"Always,  Barry." 

"  And  you  love  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  know  it." 

*'  Yes,  I  know  it,"  he  said,  in  a  moved  voice,  as  he. 
raised  her  hands  and  kissed  them,  "  I  know  it — 
thank  God." 

After  the  drill.  Porter  took  the  whole  party  back  to 
Delilah's  for  tea.     And  when  her  guests  had  gone, 

121 


CONTRART  MART 

and  the  black-haired  beauty  went  to  her  flamingo 
room  to  dress  for  dinner,  she  found  a  note  on  her 
pincushion. 

"  I  have  taken  Barry's  picture,  because  he  meant 
it  for  me ;  it  was  a  mistake,  your  getting  it.  He 
left  it  with  the  new  maid  one  day  when  you  were  at 
our  house,  and  she  handed  it  to  you  instead  of  to 
me — she  mixed  up  our  names,  just  as  the  maids 
used  to  mix  them  up  at  school.  And  I  know  you 
won't  mind  my  taking  it,  because  with  you  it  is  just 
a  game  to  play  at  love — with  Barry.  But  it  is  my 
life,  as  you  said  that  day  in  the  Park.  And  to-day 
Barry  told  me  that  it  is  his  life,  too.  And  I  am  very 
happy.  But  this  is  our  secret,  and  please  let  it  be 
your  secret  until  we  let  the  rest  of  the  world 
know " 

Delilah,  reading  the  childish  scrawl,  smiled  and 
shook  her  head.  Then  she  went  to  the  telephone 
and  called  up  Leila. 

"  Duckie,"  she  said,  "  I'll  dance  at  your  wedding, 
Only  don't  love  him  too  much — no  man  is  worth  it" 

Then,  triumphant  from  the  other  end  of  the  line, 
came  the  voice  of  Perfect  Faith — "Oh,  Barry's 
worth  it.  I've  known  him  all  my  life,  Lilah,  and  I've 
never  had  a  single  doubt" 


123 


CHAPTER  IX 

In  Which  Roger  Sallies  Forth  in  the  Service  of  a 
Damsel  in  Distress,  and  in  Which  He  Meets 
Dragons  Along  the  Way. 

IN  the  weeks  which  followed  the  trip  to  Fort  Myer, 
Mary  found  an  astonishing  change  in  her  brother. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  seemed  to  be  taking 
things  seriously.  He  stayed  at  home  at  night  and 
studied.  He  gave  up  Jerry  Tuckerman  and  the  other 
radiant  musketeers.  She  did  not  know  the  reason 
for  the  change  but  it  brought  her  hope  and  happiness. 

Barry  saw  Leila  often,  but,  as  yet,  no  one  but  De- 
lilah Jeliffe  knew  of  the  tie  between  them. 

"I  ought  to  tell  Dad,"  Leila  had  said, timidly ; 
"  he'd  be  very  happy.  It  is  what  he  has  always 
wanted,  Barry." 

"  I  must  prove  myself  a  man  first,"  Barry  told  her. 
"  I've  squandered  some  of  my  opportunities,  but  now 
that  I  have  you  [to  work  for,  I  feel  as  strong  as  a 
lion." 

They  were  alone  in  the  General's  library.  "  It  is 
because  you  trust  me,  dear  one,"  Barry  went  on, 
"  that  I  am  strong." 

She  slipped  her  little  hand  into  his.    "  Barry — it 

123 


CONTRART  MART 

seems  so  queer  to  think  that  I  shall  ever  be — your 
wife." 

"  You  had  to  be.  It  was  meant  from  the — begin- 
ning." 

"  Was  it,  Barry  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  it  will  be  to  the  end.  Oh,  I  shall  always 
love  you,  dearly,  dearly " 

It  was  idyllic,  their  little  love  affair — their  big  love 
affair,  if  one  judged  ^by  their  measure.  It  was  ten- 
der, sweet,  and  because  it  was  their  secret,  because 
there  was  no  word  of  doubt  or  of  distrust  from  those 
who  were  older  and  wiser,  they  brought  to  it  all  the 
beauty  of  youth  and  high  hope. 

Thus  the  spring  came,  and  the  early  summer,  and 
Barry  passed  his  examinations  triumphantly,  and 
came  home  one  night  and  told  Mary  that  he  was  go- 
ing to  marry  Leila  Dick.  As  he  told  her  his  blue 
eyes  beseeched  her,  and  loving  him,  and  hating  to 
hurt  him,  Mary  withheld  the  expression  of  her  fears, 
and  kissed  him  and  cried  a  little  on  his  shoulder,  and 
Barry  patted  her  cheek,  and  said  awkwardly :  "  J. 
know  you  think  I'm  not  worthy  of  her,  Mary.  But 
she  will  make  a  man  of  me." 

Alone,  afterward,  Mary  wondered  if  she  had  been 
wise  to  acquiesce — yet  surely,  surely,  love  was  strong 
enough  to  lift  a  man  up  to  a  woman's  ideal — and 
Leila  was  such  a — darling. 

She  put  the  question  to  Roger  Poole  that  night 

124 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS 

In  these  warmer  days  she  and  Roger  had  slipped 
almost  unconsciously  into  close  intimacy.  He  read 
to  her  for  an  hour  after  dinner,  when  she  had  no  other 
engagements,  and  often  they  sat  in  the  old  garden^ 
she  with  her  note-book  on  the  arm  of  the  stone  bench 
— he  at  the  other  end  of  the  bench,  under  a  bush  ot 
roses  of  a  hundred  leaves.  Sometimes  Aunt  Isabelle 
was  with  them,  with  her  fancy  work,  sometimes  they 
were  alone  ;  but  always  when  the  hour  was  over,  he 
would  close  his  book  and  ascend  to  his  tower,  lest 
he  might  meet  those  who  came  later.  There  were 
many  nights  that  he  thus  escaped  Porter  Bigelow — 
nights  when  in  the  moonlight  he  heard  the  murmur 
of  voices,  mingled  with  the  splash  of  the  fountain  ; 
and  there  were  other  nights  when  gay  groups  danced 
upon  the  lawn  to  the  music  played  by  Mary  just 
within  the  open  window. 

Yet  he  thanked  the  gods  for  the  part  which  he  was 
allowed  to  play  in  her  life.  He  lived  for  that  one 
hour  out  of  the  twenty-four.  He  dared  not  think 
what  a  day  would  be  if  he  were  deprived  of  that 
precious  sixty  minutes. 

Now  and  then,  when  she  had  been  very  sure  that 
no  one  would  come,  he  had  stayed  with  her  in  the 
moonlight,  and  the  little  bronze  boy  had  smiled  at 
him  from  the  fountain,  and  there  had  been  the  fra- 
grance of  the  roses,  and  Mary  Ballard  in  white  on  the 
stone  bench  beside  him,  giving  him  her  friendly, 
girlish  confidences ;  she  discussed  problems  of  gen^ 

125 


CONTRART  MART 

teel  poverty,  the  delightful  obstinacies  of  Susan 
Jenks,  the  dominance  of  Aunt  Frances.  She  gave 
him,  too,  her  opinions — those  startling  untried  opin- 
ions which  warred  constantly  with  his  prejudices. 

And  now  to-night — his  advice. 

"  Do  you  think  love  can  change  a  man's  nature  ? 
Make  a  weak  man  strong,  I  mean  ?  " 

He  laid  down  his  book.  "  You  ask  that  as  if  I 
could  really  answer  it." 

"  I  think  you  can.  You  always  seem  to  be  able  to 
put  yourself  in  the  other  person's  place,  and  it — helps." 

"  Thank  you.  And  now  in  whose  place  shall  I 
put  myself  ?  " 

"  The  girl's,"  promptly. 

He  considered  it.  "  I  should  say  that  the  man 
should  be  put  to  the  test  before  marriage." 

"You  mean  that  she  ought  to  wait  until  she  is  sure 
that  he  is  made  over  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  I  feel  that  way.  But  what  if  the  girl  be- 
lieves in  him?  Doesn't  dream  that  he  is  weak — 
trusts  him  absolutely,  blindly  ?  Should  any  one  try 
to  open  her  eyes  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  it  is  folly  to  be  wise.  Perhaps  for  her 
he  will  always  be  strong." 

"  Then  what's  the  answer  ?  " 

"  Only  this.  That  the  man  himself  should  make 
the  test  He  should  wait  until  he  knows  that  he  is 
worthy  of  her." 

126 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS 

She  made  a  little  gesture  of  hopelessness,  just  the 
lifting  of  her  hands  and  letting  them  drop ;  then  she 
spoke  with  a  rush  of  feeling. 

"  Mr.  Poole — it  is  Barry  and  Leila.  Ought  I  to 
let  them  marry  ?  " 

He  smiled  at  her  confidence  in  her  ability  to  rule 
the  destinies  of  those  about  her. 

"  I  fancy  that  you  won't  have  anything  to  do  with 
it.  He  is  of  age,  and  you  are  only  his  sister.  You 
couldn't  forbid  the  banns,  you  know." 

"  But  if  I  could  convince  him " 

"Of  what?"  gravely.  "That  you  think  him  a 
Doy  ?  Perhaps  that  would  tend  to  weaken  his 
powers." 

"  Then  I  must  fold  my  hands  ?  " 

"  Yes.     As  things  are  now — I  should  wait." 

He  did  not  explain,  and  she  did  not  ask,  for  what 
she  should  wait.  It  was  as  if  they  both  realized  that 
the  test  would  come,  and  that  it  would  come  in  time. 

And  it  did  come. 

It  was  while  Leila  was  on  a  trip  to  the  Maine  coast 
with  her  father. 

July  was  waning,  and  already  an  August  sultriness 
was  in  the  air.  Those  who  were  left  in  town  were 
the  workers — every  one  who  could  get  away  was 
gone.  Mary,  with  the  care  of  her  house  on  her 
hands,  refused  Aunt  Frances'  invitation  for  a 
month  by  the  sea,  and  Aunt  Isabelle  declined  to 
leave  her. 

ia7 


CONTRART  MART 

"I  like  it  better  here,  even  with  the  heat,"  she  told 
her  niece,  "  than  running  around  Bar  Harbor  with 
Frances  and  Grace." 

Barry  wrote  voluminous  letters  to  Leila,  and  re* 
ceived  in  return  her  dear  childish  scrawls.  But  the 
strain  of  her  absence  began  to  tell  on  him.  He  be- 
gan to  feel  the  pull  toward  old  pleasures  and  dis- 
tractions. Then  one  day  Jerry  Tucker  man  arrived 
on  the  scene.  The  next  night,  he  and  Barry  and  the 
other  radiant  musketeers  motored  over  to  Baltimore 
by  moonlight.  Barry  did  not  come  home  the  next 
day,  nor  the  next,  nor  the  next.  Mary  grew  white 
and  tense,  and  manufactured  excuses  which  did  not 
deceive  Aunt  Isabelle.  Neither  of  the  tired  pale 
women  spoke  to  each  other  of  their  vigils.  Neither 
of  them  spoke  of  the  anxiety  which  consumed  them. 

Then  one  night,  after  a  message  had  come  from 
the  office,  asking  for  an  explanation  of  Barry's  ab- 
sence ;  after  she  had  called  up  the  Country  Club ; 
after  she  had  called  up  Jerry  Tuckerman  and  had 
received  an  evasive  answer ;  after  she  had  exhausted 
all  other  resources,  Mary  climbed  the  steps  to  the 
Tower  Rooms. 

And  there,  sitting  stiff  and  straight  in  a  high-backed 
chair,  with  her  throat  dry,  her  pulses  throbbing,  she 
laid  the  case  before  Roger  Poole. 

"  There  is  no  one  else — I  can  speak  to — about  it. 
But  Barry's  been  away  for  nearly  a  week  from  the 
office  and  from  home — and  nobody  knows  where  he 

128 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS 

is.  And  it  isn't  the  first  time.  It  began  before  father 
died,  and  it  nearly  broke  his  heart.  You  see,  he  had 
a  brother — whose  life  was  ruined  because  of  this. 
And  Constance  and  I  have  done  everything.  There 
will  be  months  when  he  is  all  right.  And  then  there'll 
be  a  week — away.  And  after  it,  he  is  dreadfully  de- 
pressed, and  I'm  afraid."  She  was  shivering,  though 
the  night  was  hot. 

Roger  dared  not  speak  his  sympathy.  This  was 
not  the  moment. 

So  he  said,  simply,  "  I'll  find  him,  and  when  I  find 
him,"  he  went  on,  "  it  may  be  best  not  to  bring  him 
back  at  once.  I've  had  to  deal  with  such  cases  be- 
fore. We  will  go  into  the  country  for  a  few  days, 
and  come  back  when  he  is  completely — himself." 

"  Oh,  can  you  spare  the  time  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  taken  any  vacation,  and — so  there  are 
still  thirty  days  to  my  credit.  And  I  need  an  out- 
ing." 

He  prepared  at  once  to  go,  and  when  he  had 
packed  a  little  bag,  he  came  down  into  the  garden. 
There  was  moonlight  and  the  fragrance  and  the 
splashing  fountain.  Roger  was  thrilled  by  the 
thought  of  his  quest.  It  was  as  if  he  had  laid  upon 
himself  some  vow  which  was  sending  him  forth  for 
the  sake  of  this  sweet  lady.  As  Mary  came  toward 
him,  he  wished  that  he  might  ask  for  the  rose  she 
wore,  as  his  reward.  But  he  must  not  ask.  She 
gave  him  her  friendship,  her  confidence,  and  these 

129 


CONTRART  MART 

were  very  precious  things.  He  must  never  ask  fo* 
more — and  so  he  must  not  ask  for  a  rose. 

And  now  he  was  standing  just  below  her  on  the 
terrace  steps,  looking  up  at  her  with  his  heart  in  his 
eyes. 

"  I'll  find  him,"  he  said,  "  don't  worry." 

She  reached  out  and  touched  his  shoulder  with 
her  hand.  "  How  good  you  are,"  she  said,  wistfully, 
*'  to  take  all  of  this  trouble  for  us.  I  feel  that  I  ought 
not  to  let  you  do  it — and  yet — we  are  so  helpless, 
Aunt  Isabelle  and  I." 

There  was  nothing  of  the  boy  about  her  now. 
She  was  all  clinging  dependent  woman.  And  the 
touch  of  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  was  the  sword  of 
the  queen  conferring  knighthood.  What  cared  he 
now  for  a  rose  ? 

So  he  left  her,  standing  there  in  the  moonlight, 
.  _.id  when  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  he  turned 
and  looked  back,  and  she  still  stood  above  him,  and 
as  she  saw  him  turn,  she  waved  her  hand. 

In  days  of  old,  knights  fought  with  dragons  and 
cut  off  their  heads,  only  to  find  that  other  heads  had 
grown  to  replace  those  which  had  been  destroyed. 

And  it  was  such  dragons  of  doubt  and  despair 
which  Roger  Poole  fought  in  the  days  after  he  had 
found  Barry. 

The  boy  had  hidden  himself  in  a  small  hotel  in  the 
down-town  district  of  Baltimore.  Following  one  clue 
and  then  another,  Roger  had  come  upon  him.     There 

130 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS 

had  been  no  explanations.  Barry  had  seemed  to 
take  his  rescue  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  to  be  glad 
of  some  one  into  whose  ears  he  could  pour  the  litany 
of  his  despair. 

"It's  no  use,  Poole.  I've  fought  and  fought 
Father  helped  me.  And  I  promised  Con.  And  I 
thought  that  my  love  for  Leila  would  make  me 
strong.  But  there's  no  use  trying.  I'll  be  beaten. 
It  is  in  the  blood.  I  had  an  uncle  who  drank  him- 
self to  death.  And  back  of  him  there  was  a  grand- 
father." 

They  had  been  together  for  two  days.  Barry  had 
agreed  to  Roger's  plans  for  a  trip  to  the  country, 
and  now  they  were  under  the  trees  on  the  banks  of 
one  of  the  little  brackish  rivers  which  flow  into  the 
Chesapeake.  They  had  fished  a  little  in  the  early 
morning,  then  had  brought  their  boat  in,  for  Barry 
had  grown  tired  of  the  sport.  He  wanted  to  talk 
about  himself. 

"  It's  no  use,"  he  said  again  ;  "  it's  in  the  blood." 

Roger  was  propped  against  a  tree,  his  hat  off,  his 
dark  hair  blown  back  from  his  fine  thin  face. 

"Our  lives,"  he  said,  "are  our  own.  Not  what 
our  ancestors  make  them." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,'*  Barry  said,  ilatly.  "  I've 
iought  a  good  fight,  no  one  can  say  that  I  haven't 
And  I've  lost.  After  this  do  you  suppose  that  Mary 
will  let  me  marry  Leila  ?  Do  you  suppose  the  General 
will  let  me  marry  her  ?  " 

131 


CONTRART  MART 

"  Will  you  let  yourself  marry  her  ?  ^*' 

Barry's  face  flamed.  "  Then  you  think  Fm  not 
worthy  ?  " 

"It  is  what  you  think,  Ballard,  not  what  I 
think. " 

Barry  pulled  up  a  handful  of  grass  and  threw  it 
away,  pulled  up  another  handful  and  threw  it  away. 
Then  he  said,  doggedly,  "  I'm  going  to  marry  her, 
Poole  ;  no  one  shall  take  her  away  from  me." 

"  And  you  call  that  love  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  can't  live  without  her." 

Roger  with  his  eyes  on  the  dark  water  which 
slipped  by  the  banks,  taking  its  shadows  from  the 
darkness  of  the  thick  branches  which  bent  above  it, 
said  quietly,  "  Love  to  me  has  always  seemed  some- 
thing bigger  than  that — it  has  seemed  as  if  love — 
great  love  took  into  consideration  first  the  welfare  of 
the  beloved." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  out  of  which  Barry  said, 
*^mpestuously,  "  It  will  break  her  heart  if  anything 
comes  between  us.  I'm  not  saying  that  because  I 
am  a  conceited  donkey.  But  she  is  such  a  constant 
iitde  thing." 

Roger  nodded.  "  That's  all  the  more  reason  why 
you've  got  to  pull  up  now,  Ballard." 

•*  But  I've  tried." 

"  I  knew  a  man  who  tried — ^and  won." 

*•  How  ?"  eagerly. 

"  I  met  him  in  the  pine  woods  of  the  South.     I 

132 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS 

was  down  there  to  recover  from  a  cataclysm  whicl 
had  changed — my  life.  This  man  had  a  little  shack 
next  to  mine.  Neither  of  us  had  much  money. 
We  lived  literally  in  the  open.  We  cooked  over 
fires  in  front  of  our  doors.  We  hunted  and  fished. 
Now  and  then  we  went  to  town  for  our  supplies,  but 
most  of  our  things  we  got  from  the  schooner-men 
who  drove  down  from  the  hills.  My  neighbor  was 
married.  He  had  a  wife  and  three  children.  But 
he  had  come  alone.  And  he  told  me  grimly  that 
he  should  never  go  back  until  he  went  back  a  man." 

"  Did  he  go  back  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  conquered.  He  looked  upon  his  weak« 
ness  not  merely  as  a  moral  disease,  but  as  a  physical 
one.  And  it  was  to  be  cured  like  any  other  disease 
by  removing  the  cause.  The  first  step  was  to  get 
away  from  old  associations.  He  couldn't  resist 
temptation,  so  he  had  come  where  he  was  not 
tempted.  His  occupation  in  the  city  had  been 
mental,  here  it  was  largely  physical.  He  chopped 
wood,  he  tramped  the  forest,  he  whipped  the  streams. 
And  gradually  he  built  up  a  self  which  was  capable 
of  resistance.  When  he  went  back  he  was  a  differ- 
ent man,  made  over  by  his  different  life.  And  hr 
has  cast  out  his — devil." 

The  boy  was  visibly  impressed. 

"  His  way  might  not  be  your  way,"  Roger  con- 
cluded, "  but  the  fact  that  he  fought  a  winning  battls? 
should  give  you  hope." 

133 


CONTRART  MART 

The  next  day  they  went  back.  Mary  met  them  as 
if  nothing  had  happened.  The  basket  of  fish  which 
they  had  brought  to  be  cooked  by  Susan  Jenks 
furnished  an  unembarrassing  topic  of  conversation. 
Then  Barry  went  to  his  room,  and  Mary  was  alone 
with  Roger. 

She  had  had  a  letter  from  him,  and  a  message  by 
telephone ;  thus  her  anxiety  had  been  stilled.  And 
she  was  very  grateful — so  grateful  that  her  voice 
trembled  as  she  held  out  her  hands  to  him. 

"  How  shall  I  ever  thank  you  ?  "  she  said. 

He  took  her  hands  in  his,  and  stood  looking  down 
at  her. 

He  did  not  speak  at  once,  yet  in  those  fleeting 
moments  Mary  had  a  strange  sense  of  a  question 
asked  and  answered.  It  was  as  if  he  were  calling 
upon  her  for  something  she  was  not  ready  to  give — 
as  if  he  were  drawing  from  her  some  subconscious 
admission,  swaying  her  by  a  force  that  was  compel- 
ling, to  reveal  herself  to  him. 

And,  as  she  thought  these  things,  he  saw  a  new 
look  in  her  eyes,  and  her  breath  quickened. 

He  dropped  her  hands. 

"  Don't  thank  me,"  he  said.  "  Ask  me  again  to  dc 
something  for  you.    That  shall  be  my  reward. ' 


134 


CHAPTER  X 

In  Which  a  Scarlet  Flower  Blooms  in  the  Garden; 
and  in  Which  a  Light  Flares  Later  in  the 
Tower. 

IN    September    everybody   came   back   to   town, 
Porter  Bigelow  among  the  rest. 

He  telephoned  at  once  to  Mary,  "  I'm  coming  up." 

She  was  radiant.  "  Constance  and  Gordon  arrived 
Monday,  and  I  want  you  for  dinner.  Leila  will  be 
here  and  the  General  and  Aunt  Frances  and  Graa 
from  New  York." 

His  growl  came  back  to  her.  "  And  that  means 
that  I  won't  have  a  minute  alone  with  you." 

"Oh,  Porter — please.  There  are  so  many  other 
g^rls  in  the  world — and  you've  had  the  whole  sum- 
mer to  find  one." 

•*  The  summer  has  been  a  howling  wilderness.  But 
mother  has  put  me  through  my  paces  at  the  resorts. 
Mary,  Tve  learned  such  a  lot  of  new  dances  to  teach 
you." 

*'  Teach  them  to  Grace." 

He  groaned.  "  You  know  what  I  think  of  Grace 
Clendenning." 

"Porter,  she's  beautiful.  She  wears  little  black 
frocks  with  wide  white  collars  and  cuffs  and  looks 

135 


CONTRART  MART 

perfectly  adorable.  To-night  she's  going  to  wear 
a  black  tulle  gown  and  a  queer  flaring  black  tulle 
head-dress,  and  with  her  red  hair — you  won't  be  able 
to  drag  your  eyes  from  her." 

"I've  enough  red  hair  of  my  own,"  Porter  in- 
formed her,  "  without  having  to  look  at  Grace's."' 

"  I'll  put  you  opposite  her  at  dinner.  Come  and 
see,  and  be  conquered." 

Roger  Poole  was  also  invited  to  the  home-coming 
dinner.  Mary  had  asked  nobody's  advite  this  time. 
Of  late  Roger  and  Barry  had  been  much  together, 
and  it  was  their  friendship  which  Mary  had  exploited, 
when  Constance,  somewhat  anxiously,  had  asked,  on 
the  day  preceding  the  dinner,  if  she  thought  it  was 
wise  to  include  the  lonely  dweller  in  the  Tower 
Rooms. 

"  He's  really  very  nice,  Constance.  And  he  has 
been  a  great  help  to  Barry." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  they  had  spoken  of  their 
brother.  And  now  Constance's  words  came  with 
something  of  an  effort.     "  What  of  Barry,  Mary  ?" 

"  He  is  more  of  a  man.  Con.  He  is  trying  hard 
for  Leila's  sake.'' 

"  Gordon  thinks  they  really  ought  not  to  be  en- 
gaged.'' 

The  sisters  were  in  Mary's  room,  and  Mary  at 
her  little  desk  was  writing  out  the  dinner  list  for 
Susan  Jenks.  She  looked  up  and  laid  down  her  pen. 
•*  Then  you've  told  Gordon  ?  " 

136 


A  SCARLET  FLOfVER  BLOOMS 

"Yes.  And  he  says  that  Barry  ought  to  go 
away." 

"Where?" 

"  Far  enough  to  give  Leila  a  chance  to  get  over  it." 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  ever  get  over  it,  Con  ?  " 

"  Gordon  thinks  she  would." 

Mary's  head  went  up.  "  I  am  not  asking  what 
Gordon  thinks.     What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  think  as  Gordon  does."  Then  as  Mary  made 
a  little  impatient  gesture,  she  added,  "  Gordon  is 
very  wise.  At  first  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  was — 
harsh,  in  his  judgment  of  Barry.  But  he  knows  so 
much  of  men — and  he  says  that  here,  in  town,  among 
his  old  associations — Barry  will  never  be  different 
And  it  isn't  fair  to  Leila." 

Mary  knew  that  it  was  not  fair  to  Leila.  She  haf 
always  known  it.  Yet  she  was  stubbornly  resentful 
of  the  fact  that  Gordon  Richardson  should  be,  as 
it  were,  the  arbiter  of  Barry's  destiny. 

"  Oh,  it  is  all  such  a  muddle.  Con,"  she  said,  and 
put  the  question  aside.  "We  won't  talk  about  it 
just  now.  There  is  so  much  else  to  say — and  it  is 
lovely  to  have  you  back,  dearest — and  you  are  so 
lovely." 

Constance  was  curled  up  on  Mary's  couch,  resting 
after  her  journey.  "  I  am  so  happy,  Mary.  No 
woman  knows  anything  about  it,  until  she  has  had 
it  for  herself.  A  man's  strength  is  so  wonderful — 
and  Gordon's  care  of  me — oh,  Mary,  if  there  were 

137 


CONTRART  MART 

only  another  man  in  the  world  for  you  like  Gordon, 
I  should  be  perfectly  content." 

It  was  a  fervent  gentle  echo  of  Aunt  Frances' 
demand  upon  her,  and  Mary  suppressing  her  raging 
jealousy  of  the  man  who  had  stolen  her  sister,  asked 
somewhat  wistfully,  "  Can  you  talk  about  me,  for  a 
minute,  and  forget  that  you  have  a  husband  ?  " 

**  I  don't  need  to  forget  Gordon,"  was  the  serene 
response.  "  I  can  keep  him  in  the  back  of  my 
mind." 

Mary  picked  up  her  pen,  and  underscored  "  Soup  " ; 
then  :  "  Constance,  darling,"  she  said,  "  would  you 
feel  dreadfully  if  I  went  to  work  ?  " 

"  What  kind  of  work,  Mary?" 

"  In  one  of  the  departments, — as  stenographer." 

*'  But  you  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

"Yes,  I  do.  I've  been  studying  ever  since  you 
went  away." 

"  But  why,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Because — oh,  can't  you  see,  Constance  ?  I  can't 
be  sure  of — Barry — for  future  support.  And  I  won't 
go  with  Aunt  Frances.  And  this  house  is  simply 
eating  up  the  little  that  father  left  us.  When  you 
married,  I  thought  the  rental  of  the  Tower  Rooms 
would  keep  things  going,  but  it  won't  And  I  won't 
sell  the  house.  I  love  every  old  stick  and  stone  of  it 
And  anyhow,  must  I  sit  and  fold  my  hands  all  the 
rest  of  my  life  just  because  I  am  a  woman  ?  " 

"  But  Mary,  dear,  you  will  marry — there's  Purter.'' 

138 


A  SCARLET  FLOWER  BLOOMS 

"  Constance,  I  couldn't  think  of  marriage  that 
way — as  a  chance  to  be  taken  care  of.  Oh,  Con,  I 
want  to  wait — for  love." 

"  Dearest,  of  course.  But  you  can  live  with  us. 
Gordon  would  never  consent  to  your  working — he 
thinks  it  is  dreadful  for  a  woman  to  have  to  fight  the 
world." 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "  No,  it  wouldn't  be  fair 
to  you.  It  is  never  fair  for  an  outsider  to  intrude 
upon  the  happiness  of  a  home.  If  your  duet  is  ever 
to  be  a  trio,  it  must  not  be  with  my  big  blundering 
voice,  which  could  make  only  a  discord,  but  a  little 
piping  one." 

She  looked  up  to  meet  Constance's  shy,  self-con- 
scious eyes. 

Mary  flew  to  her,  and  knelt  beside  the  couch. 
"  Darling,  darling  ?  " 

And  now  the  list  was  forgotten  and  Susan  Jenks 
coming  up  for  it  was  made  a  party  to  that  tremulous 
secret,  and  the  fate  of  the  dinner  was  threatened 
until  Mary,  coming  back  to  realities,  kissed  her 
sister  and  went  to  her  desk,  and  held  herself  sternly 
to  the  five  following  courses  of  the  family  dinner 
which  was  to  please  the  palates  of  those  fresh  from 
Paris  and  London  and  from  castles  by  the  sea ;  and 
which  was  to  test  to  the  utmost  the  measure  of 
Susan's  culinary  skill. 

At  dinner  the  next  night,  Gordon  Richardson 
looked  often  and  intently  at  Roger  Poole,  and  when^ 


CONTRART  MARY 

4inder  the  warmth  of  the  September  moon;  the  men 
drifted  out  into  the  garden  to  smoke,  he  said,  "I've 
just  placed  you." 

Roger  nodded.  "I  thought  you'd  remember. 
You  were  one  of  the  younger  boys  at  St.  Martin's— 
you  haven't  changed  muchj  but  I  couldn't  be  sure." 

Gordon  hesitated.  "  I  thought  I  heard  from  some 
one  that  you  entered  the  Church." 

"  I  had  a  church  in  the  South — for  three  years." 

Gordon  tried  to  keep  the  curiosity  out  of  his  voice. 

"  And  you  gave  it  up  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  gave  it  up." 

That  was  all.  Not  a  word  of  the  explanation  for 
which  he  knew  Gordon  was  waiting.  Nothing  but 
the  bare  statement,  "  I  gave  it  up." 

They  talked  a  little  of  St.  Martin's  after  that,  of 
their  boyish  experiences.  But  Roger  was  conscious 
that  Gordon  was  weighing  him,  and  asking  of  him- 
self, "  Why  did  he  give  it  up  ?  " 

The  two  men  were  sitting  on  the  stone  bench 
where  Roger  had  so  often  sat  with  Mary.  The 
garden  was  showing  the  first  signs  of  the  season's 
blight.  Fading  leaf  and  rustiing  vine  had  replaced 
the  unspringing  greenness  and  the  fragrant  growth 
of  the  summer.  There  were,  to  be  sure,  dahlias  and 
chrysanthemums  and  cosmos.  But  the  glory  of  the 
garden  was  gone. 

Then  into  the  garden  came  Mary  ! 

She  was  wrapped  in  a  thin  silken,  scarlet  cloak 

140 


A  SCARLET  FLOfVER  BLOOMS 

that  belonged  to  Constance.  As  she  passed  througliv 
the  broad  band  of  light  made  by  the  street  lamp. 
Roger  had  a  sudden  memory  of  the  flame-like  blos- 
soming of  a  certain  slender  shrub  in  the  spring.  It 
had  been  the  first  of  the  flowers  to  bloom,  and  Mary 
had  picked  a  branch  for  the  vase  on  his  table  in  the 
Tower  sitting-room. 

"  Constance  wants  you,  Gordon,"  Mary  said,  as 
she  came  nearer ;  "  some  one  has  called  up  to  ar- 
range about  a  dinner  date,  and  she  can't  decide  with- 
out you." 

She  sat  down  on  the  stone  bench,  and  Roger,  who 
had  risen  at  her  approach,  stood  under  the  hundred- 
leaved  bush  from  which  all  the  roses  were  gone. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  without  warning  or 
preface,  "  that  it  seemed  to  me  that,  as  you  came 
into  the  garden,  it  bloomed  again." 

Never  before  had  he  spoken  thus.  And  he  said  it 
again.  "  When  you  came,  it  was  as  if  the  garden 
bloomed." 

He  sat  down  beside  her.  "  Is  any  one  going  to 
claim  you  right  away  ?  Because  if  not,  I  have  some- 
thing I  want  to  say." 

"  Nobody  will  claim  me.  At  least  I  hope  nobody 
will.  Grace  Clendenning  is  telling  Porter  about  the 
art  of  woman's  dress.  She  takes  clothes  so  seriously, 
you  know.  And  Porter  is  interested  in  spite  of  him- 
self. And  Barry  and  Leila  are  on  the  terrace  steps, 
looking  at  the  moon  over  the  river,  and  Aunt  Frances 

141 


CONTRART  MART 

and  Aunt  Isabelle  and  General  Dick  are  in  the  house 
because  of  the  night  air,  so  there's  really  no  one  in 
the  garden  but  you  and  me." 

"Just  you — and — me "  he  said,  and  stopped. 

She  was  plainly  puzzled  by  his  manner.  But  she 
waited,  her  arms  wrapped  in  her  red  cloak. 

At  last  he  said,  "  Your  brother-in-law  and  I  went 
to  school  together." 

••  Gordon  ?  " 

"  Yes.  St.  Martin's.  He  was  younger  than  I, 
and  we  were  not  much  together.  But  I  knew  him. 
And  after  he  had  puzzled  over  it,  he  knew  me." 

"  How  interesting." 

"And  he  asked  me  something  about  myself,  which 
I  have  never  told  you  ;  which  I  want  to  tell  you  now." 

He  was  finding  it  hard  to  tell,  with  her  eyes  upon 
him,  bright  as  stars. 

"  Your  brother  said  he  had  heard  that  I  had  gone 
into  the  Church — that  I  had  a  parish.  And  what  he 
had  heard  was  true.  Until  five  years  ago,  I  was 
rector  of  a  church  in  the  South." 

"  You?''  That  was  all.  Just  a  litde  breathed 
note  of  incredulity. 

"  Yes.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  before  he  should  have 
a  chance  to  tell,  and  to  think  that  I  had  kept  from 
you  something  which  you  should  have  been  told. 
But  I  am  not  sure,  even  now,  that  it  should  be  told." 

"  But  on  Christmas  Eve,  you  said  that  you  did  not 
1)elieve  — ^ — " 

142 


A  SCARLET  FLOJVER  BLOOMS 

"  I  do  not." 

"  And  was  that  the  reason  you  gave  it  up  ?  " 

"  No.  It  is  a  long  story.  And  it  is  not  a  pleasanii: 
one.     Yet  it  seems  that  I  must  tell  it." 

The  wind  had  risen  and  blew  a  mist  from  the  foun- 
tain.    The  dead  leaves  rustled. 

Mary  shivered. 

"  Oh,  you  are  cold,"  Roger  said,  "  and  I  am  keep- 
ing you." 

"  No,"  she  said,  mechanically,  "  I  am  not  cold.  I 
have  my  cloak.     Please  go  on." 

But  he  was  not  to  tell  his  story  then,  for  a  shaft  of 
strong  light  illumined  the  roadway,  and  a  big 
limousine  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace  steps. 
They  heard  Delilah  Jeliffe's  high  laugh ;  then 
Porter's  voice  iu  the  garden  "Mary^  are  you 
there?" 

"Yes." 

"  Grace  Clendenning  and  her  mother  are  going, 
and  Delilah  and  Mr.  JelifEe  have  motored  out  to  show 
you  their  new  car." 

There  was  deep  disapproval  in  his  voice.  Mary 
rose  reluctantly  as  he  joined  them.  "Oh,  Porter, 
must  I  listen  to  Delilah's  chatter  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening  ?  " 

'*  You  made  me  listen  to  Grace's.  This  is  your 
punishment." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  punished  And  I  am  very 
tired,  Porter." 

143 


CONTRART  MART 

This  was  a  new  word  in  Mary  Ballajd's  vocabulary, 
and  Porter  responded  at  once  to  its  appeal. 

"We  will  get  rid  of  Delilah  presently,  and  then 
Gordon  and  Constance  will  go  with  us  for  a  spin 
around  the  Speedway.  That  will  set  you  up,  little 
lady." 

Roger  stood  silent  by  the  fountain.  Through  the 
veil  of  mist  the  little  bronze  boy  seemed  to  smilv- 
maliciously.  During  all  the  years  in  which  he  had 
ridden  the  dolphin,  he  had  seen  men  and  women 
come  and  go  beneath  the  hundred-leaved  bush.  And 
he  had  smiled  on  all  of  them,  and  by  their  mood  they 
had  interpreted  his  smiles. 

Roger's  mood  at  this  moment  was  one  of  impotent 
rebellion  at  Porter's  air  of  proprietorship,  and  it  was 
"with  this  air  intensified  that,  as  Mary  shivered  again 
Porter  drew  her  wrap  about  her  shoulders,  fastening 
the  loop  over  the  big  button  with  expert  fingers, 
and  said,  carelessly,  "  Are  you  coming  in  with  us, 
Poole?" 

"  No.     Not  now." 

Above  the  head  of  the  little  bronze  boy,  level 
glance  met  level  glance,  as  in  the  moonlight  the 
men  surveyed  each  other. 

Then  Mary  spoke. 

"  Mr.  Poole,  I  am  so  sorry  not  to  hear  the  rest  of 
the — story." 

"  You  shall  hear  it  another  time.'" 

She  hesitated,  looking  up  at  hinx     It  was  as  if  she 

144 


A  SCARLET  FLOWER  BLOOMS 

wanted  to  speak  but  could  not,  with  Porter  there  to 
listen. 

So  she  smiled,  with  eyes  and  lips.  Just  a  flash, 
but  it  warmed  his  heart. 

Yet  as  she  went  away  with  Porter,  and  passed 
once  more  through  the  broad  band  of  the  street 
lamp's  light  which  made  of  her  scarlet  cloak  a  flam- 
ing flower,  he  looked  after  her  wistfully,  and  won- 
dered if  when  she  had  heard  what  he  had  to  tell  she 
would  ever  smile  at  him  like  that  again. 

Delilah,  fresh  from  a  triumphal  summer,  was  in  the 
midst  of  a  laughing  group  on  the  porch. 

As  Mary  came  up,  she  was  saying:  "  And  we  have 
taken  a  dear  old  home  in  Georgetown.  No  more 
glare  or  glitter.  Everything  is  to  be  subdued  to  the 
dullness  of  a  Japanese  print — pale  gray  and  dull  blue 
and  a  splash  of  black.  This  gown  gives  the  key- 
note." 

She  was  in  gray  taffeta,  with  a  girdle  of  soft  old 
blue,  and  a  string  of  black  rose-beads.  No  color 
was  on  her  cheeks — there  was  just  the  blackness  of 
her  hair  and  the  whiteness  of  her  fine  skin. 

"  It's  great,"  Barry  said. 

Delilah  nodded.  "  Yes.  It  has  taken  me  several 
years  to  find  out  some  things."  She  looked  at  Grace 
and  smiled.     "  It  didn't  take  you  years,  did  it  ?  " 

Grace  smiled  back.  The  two  women  were  as  far 
apart  as  the  poles.  Grace  represented  the  old 
Knickerbocker  stock,  Lilah,  a  later  grafting.     Grace 

145 


CONTRART  MART 

studied  clothes  because  it  pleased  her  to  make  of 
fashions  a  fine  art.  Delilah  studied  to  impress. 
But  each  one  saw  in  the  other  some  similarity  of 
taste  and  of  mood,  and  the  smile  that  they  exchanged 
was  that  of  comprehension. 

Aunt  Frances  did  not  approve  of  Delilah.  She 
said  so  to  Grace  going  home. 

"  My  dear,  they  live  on  the  West  Side — in  a  big 
house  on  the  Drive.  My  calling  list  stops  east  of 
the  Park." 

Grace  shrugged.  "  Mother,"  she  said,  "  I  learned 
one  thing  in  Paris — that  the  only  people  worth  know- 
ing are  the  interesting  people,  and  whether  they  live 
on  the  Drive  or  in  Dakota,  I  don't  care.  And  we' v 
an  awful  lot  of  fossils  in  our  set." 

Mrs.  Clendenning  shifted  the  argument.  "  I  don't 
see  why  General  Dick  allows  Leila  to  be  so  much 
with  Miss  Jeliffe." 

"They  were  at  school  together,  and  the  General 
and  Mr.  Jeliffe  are  old  friends." 

Her  mother  shrugged  "  Well,  I  hope  that  if  we 
stay  here  for  the  winter  that  they  won't  be  forced 
upon  us.  Washington  is  such  a  city  of  climbers, 
Grace." 

Grace  let  the  matter  drop  there.  She  had  learned 
discretion.  She  and  her  mother  viewed  life  from 
different  angles.  To  attempt  to  reconcile  these  dif- 
ferences would  mean,  had  always  meant,  strife  and 
controversy,  and   in   these   later  years,  Grace  had 

146 


A  SCARLET  FLOWER  BLOOMS 

steered  her  course  toward  serenity.  She  had  re- 
fused to  be  blown  about  by  the  storms  of  her  moth- 
er's prejudices.  In  the  midst  of  the  conventionality 
of  her  own  social  training,  she  had  managed  to  be 
untrammeled.  In  this  she  was  more  like  Mary  than 
the  others  of  her  generation.  And  she  loved  Mary, 
and  wanted  to  see  her  happy. 

"  Mother,"  she  asked  abrupdy,  "  who  is  this  Roger 
Poole?" 

Mrs.  Clendenning  told  her  that  he  was  a  lodger  in 
the  Tower  Rooms — a  treasury  clerk — a  mere  nobody. 

Grace  challenged  the  last  statement.  "  He's  a 
brilliant  man,"  she  said.  "  I  sat  next  to  him  at 
dinner.  There's  a  mystery  somewhere.  He  has  an 
air  of  authority,  the  ease  of  a  man  of  the  world." 

"  He  is  in  love  with  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Clendenning, 
"  and  he  oughtn't  to  be  in  the  house." 

"  But  Mary  isn't  in  love  with  him — not  yet^' 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

In  the  darkness  Grace  smiled.  How  did  she 
know  ?  Why,  Mary  in  love  would  be  lighted  up  by 
3.  lamp  within  I  It  would  bum  in  her  cheeks,  flash 
in  her  eyes. 

"  No,  Mary's  not  in  love,"  she  said, 

"  She  ought  to  marry  Porter  Bigelow." 

"  She  ought  not  to  marry  Porter.  Mary  should 
marry  a  man  who  would  utilize  all  that  she  has  to 
give.     Porter  would  not  utilize  it." 

"Now  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  said  Mrs. 

14.7 


CONTRART  MART 

Qendenning,   impatiently.     "Don't  talk  nonsense, 
Grace." 

"  Mary  Ballard,"  Grace  analyzed  slowly,  "  is  one 
of  the  women  who  if  she  had  been  born  in  another 
generation  would  have  gone  singing  to  the  lions  for 
the  sake  of  an  ideal ;  she  would  have  led  an  army, 
or  have  loaded  guns  behind  barricades.  She  has 
courage  and  force,  and  the  need  of  some  big  thing 
in  her  life  to  bring  out  her  best.  And  Porter  doesn't 
need  that  kind  of  wife.  He  doesn't  want  it.  He 
wants  to  worship.  To  kneel  at  her  feet  and  look  up 
to  her.  He  would  require  nothing  of  her.  He  would 
smother  her  with  tenderness.  And  she  doesn't  want 
to  be  smothered.  She  wants  to  lift  up  her  head  and 
face  the  beating  winds." 

Mrs.  Clendenning,  helpless  before  this  burst  of  elo- 
quence on  the  part  of  her  usually  restrained  daughter, 
asked,  tartly,  "  How  in  the  world  do  you  know  what 
Porter  wants  or  Mary  needs  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Grace,  slowly,  "  it  is  because  I 
am  a  little  like  Mary.  But  I  am  older,  and  I've 
learned  to  take  what  the  world  gives.  Not  what  I 
want.  But  Mary  will  never  be  content  with  com- 
promise, and  she  will  always  go  through  life  with  her 
head  up." 

Mary's  head  was  up  at  that  very  moment,  as  with 
cheeks  flaming  and  eyes  bright,  she  played  hostess 
to  her  guests,  while  in  the  back  of  her  brain  were 
beating  questions  about  Roger  Poole. 

148 


A  SCARLET  FLOWER  BLOOMS 

Freed  from  the  somewhat  hampering  presence  <# 
Mrs.  Clendenning-,  Delilah  was  letting  herself  go, 
and  she  drew  even  from  grave  Gordon  Richardson 
the  tribute  of  laughter. 

"  It  was  an  artist  tnat  I  met  at  Marblehead,"  she 
said,  "  who  showed  me  the  way.  He  told  me  that  I 
was  a  blot  against  the  sea  and  the  sky,  with  my 
purples  and  greens  and  reds  and  yellows.  I  will 
show  you  his  sketches  of  me  as  I  ought  to  be. 
They  opened  my  eyes  ;  and  I'll  show  you  my  artist 
too.  He's  coming  down  to  see  whether  I  have 
caught  the  idea." 

And  now  she  moved  down  the  steps.  "  Father 
will  be  furious  if  I  keep  him  waiting  any  longer. 
He's  crazy  over  the  car,  and  when  he  drives,  it  is  a 
regular  Tam  O'Shanter  performance,  I  won't  ask 
any  of  you  to  risk  your  necks  with  him  yet,  but  if 
you  and  the  General  are  willing  to  try  it,  Leila,  we 
will  take  you  home." 

"  I  haven't  fought  in  fifty  battles  to  show  the  white 
feather  now,"  said  the'  General,  and  Leila  chirruped, 
"  I'd  love  it,"  and  presently,  with  Barry  in  devoted 
attendance,  they  drove  off. 

Mary,  waiting  on  the  porch  for  Porter  to  telephone 
for  his  own  car,  which  was  to  take  them  around  the 
Speedway,  looked  eagerly  toward  the  fountain.  The 
moon  had  gone  under  a  cloud,  and  while  she  caught 
the  gleam  of  the  water,  the  hundred-leaved  bush  hid 
the  bench.     Was  Roger  Poole  there  ?    Alone  ? 

149 


CONTRART  MART 

She  heard  Porter's  voice  behind  her.  "  Mary,"  he 
said,  "  I've  brought  a  heavy  wrap.  And  the  car  will 
be  here  in  a  minute." 

Aunt  IsabeUe  had  given  him  the  green  wrap  with 
the  fur.  She  slipped  into  it  silently,  and  he  turned 
the  collar  up  about  her  neck. 

"I'm  not  going  to  have  you  shivering  as  you  did 
in  that  thin  red  thing,"  he  said. 

She  drew  away.  It  was  good  of  him  to  take  care 
of  her,  but  she  didn't  want  his  care.  She  didn't  want 
that  tone,  that  air  of  possession.  She  was  not 
Porter's.  She  belonged  to  herself.  And  to  no  one 
else.     She  was  free. 

With  the  quick  proud  movement  that  was  charac- 
teristic of  her,  she  lifted  her  head.  Her  eyes  went 
beyond  Porter,  beyond  the  porch,  to  the  Tower 
Rooms  where  a  light  fiared,  suddenly,  Roger 
Poole  was  not  in  the  garden ;  he  had  gone  up  with- 
out saying  "  Good-night" 


15^ 


CHAPTER  XI 

In   JVhick   Roger  Writes  a  Letter ;  and  in  Which  a 
Rose  Blooms  Upon  the  Pages  of  a  Book. 

In  the  Tower  Rooms^  Midnight 

IT  is  best  to  write  it.  What  I  might  have  said  to 
you  in  the  garden  would  have  been  halting  at 
best.  How  could  I  speak  it  all  with  your  clear  eyes 
upon  me — all  the  sordid  history  of  those  years  which 
are  best  buried,  but  whose  ghosts  to-night  have  risen 
again  ? 

If  in  these  months — this  year  that  I  have  lived  in 
these  rooms,  I  have  seemed  to  hide  that  which  you 
will  now  know,  it  was  not  because  I  wanted  to  set 
myself  before  you  as  something  more  than  I  am. 
Not  that  I  wished  to  deceive.  It  was  simply  that  the 
thought  of  the  old  life  brought  a  surging  sense  of 
helplessness,  of  hopelessness,  of  rebellion  against  fate. 
Having  put  it  behind  me,  I  have  not  wished  to  talk 
about  it — to  think  about  it^ — to  have  it,  in  all  its 
tarnished  tragedy,  held  up  before  your  earnest,  shin- 
ing eyes. 

For  you  have  never  known  such  things  as  I  have 
to  tell  you,  Mary  Ballard.  There  has  been  sorrow 
in  your  life,  and,  I  have  seen  of  late,  suffering  ioc 

431 


CONTRART  MART 

those  you  love.  But,  as  yet,  you  have  not  doffed  an 
ideal.  You  have  not  bowed  that  brave  young  head 
of  yours.  You  have  never  yet  turned  your  back 
upon  the  things  which  might  have  been. 

As  I  have  turned  mine.  I  wish  sometimes  that 
you  might  have  known  me  before  the  happening  of 
these  things  which  I  am  to  tell  you.  But  I  wish 
more  than  all,  that  I  might  have  known  you.  Until 
I  came  here,  I  did  not  dream  that  there  was  such  a 
woman  in  the  world  as  you.  I  had  thought  of 
women  first,  as  a  chivalrous  boy  thinks,  later,  as  a 
disillusioned  man.  But  of  a  woman  like  a  young 
and  ardent  soldier,  on  fire  to  fight  the  winning  bat- 
tles of  the  world — of  such  a  woman  I  had  never 
dreamed. 

But  this  year  has  taught  me.  I  have  seen  you 
pushing  away  from  you  the  things  which  would 
have  charmed  most  women.  I  have  seen  you  push- 
ing away  wealth,  and  love  for  the  mere  sake  of  love- 
ing.  I  have  seen  you  willing  to  work  that  you 
might  hold  undimmed  the  ideal  which  you  had 
set  for  your  womanhood.  Loving  and  love-worthy, 
you  have  not  been  willing  to  receive  unless  you 
could  give,  give  from  the  fulness  of  that  generous 
nature  of  yours.  And  out  of  that  generosity,  you 
have  given  me  your  friendship. 

And  now,  as  I  write  the  things  which  your  clear 
eyes  are  to  read,  I  am  wondering  whether  that 
friendship  will  be  withdrawn.     Will  you,  when  you 

152 


A  LETTER 

have  heard  of  my  losing  battle,  find  anything  in  me 
that  is  worthy — will  there  be  anything  saved  out  of 
the  wreck  of  your  thought  of  me  ? 

Well,  here  it  is,  and  you  shall  judge  : 

I  will  skip  the  first  years,  except  to  say  that  my 
father  was  one  of  the  New  York  Pooles  who  moved 
South  after  the  Civil  War.  My  mother  was  from 
Richmond.  We  were  prosperous  folk,  with  an  un- 
assailable social  position.  My  mother,  gracious  and 
charming,  is  little  more  than  a  memory  ;  she  died 
when  I  was  a  child.  My  father  married  again,  and 
died  wiien  1  was  in  college.  Thexe  were  three 
children  by  this  second  marriage,  and  when  the 
estate  was  settled,  only  a  modest  sum  fell  to  my 
share. 

I  had  been  a  lonely  little  boy— at  college  I  w^as  a 
dreamy,  idealistic  chap,  with  the  saving  grace  of  a 
love  of  athletics.  Your  brother-in-law  will  tell  you 
something  of  my  successes  on  our  school  team.  That 
was  my  life — the  day  in  the  open,  the  nights  among 
my  books. 

As  time  went  on,  1  cook  prizes  in  oratory — ^there 
was  a  certain  commencement,  when  the  school  went 
wild  about  me,  and  I  was  carried  on  the  shoulders 
of  my  comrades. 

There  seemed  open  to  me  the  Church  and  the 
law.  Had  t  lived  in  a  different  environment,  there 
would  have  been  also  the  stage.  But  I  saw  only 
two  outlets  for  my  talents,  the  Church,  toward  which 

153 


CONTRART  MART 

my  tastes  inclined,  and  the  law,  which  had  been  my 
father's  profession. 

At  last  I  chose  the  Church.  I  liked  the  thought 
of  my  scholarly  future — of  the  power  which  my  voice 
might  have  to  sway  audiences  and  to  move  them. 

I  am  putting  it  all  down,  all  of  my  boyish 
optimism,  conceit — whatever  you  may  choose  to  call 
it 

Yet  I  am  convinced  of  this,  and  my  success  of  a 
few  years  proved  it,  that  had  nothing  interfered 
with  my  future,  I  should  have  made  an  impression 
on  ever-widening  circles. 

But  something  came  to  interfere. 

In  my  last  years  at  the  Seminary,  I  boarded  at  a 
house  where  I  met  daily  the  daughter  of  the  landlady. 
She  was  a  little  thing,  with  yellow  hair  and  a  childish 
manner.  As  I  look  back,  I  can't  say  that  I  was  ever 
greatly  attracted  to  her.  But  she  was  a  part  of  my 
life  for  so  long  that  gradually  there  grew  up  between 
us  a  sort  of  good  fellowship.  Not  friendship  in  the 
sense  that  I  have  understood  it  with  you ;  there  was 
about  it  nothing  of  spiritual  or  of  mental  congeniality. 
But  I  played  the  big  brother.  I  took  her  to  little 
dances,  and  to  other  college  affairs.  I  gave  both  to 
herself  and  to  her  widowed  mother  such  little 
pleasures  as  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  give  to  two 
rather  lonely  women.  There  were  other  students  in 
the  house,  and  I  was  not  conscious  that  I  was  doing 
anything  more  than  the  rest  of  them. 

^54 


A  LETTER 

Then  there  came  a  day  when  the  yellow-haired 
child — shall  I  call  her  Kathy  ?  — wanted  to  go  to  a 
pageant  in  a  neighboring  town.  It  was  to  last  two 
days,  and  there  was  to  be  a  night  parade,  and  floats 
and  a  carnival.  Many  of  the  students  were  going, 
and  it  was  planned  that  Kathy  and  I  should  take  a 
morning  train  on  the  first  day,  so  that  we  might  miss 
nothing.  Kathy's  mother  would  come  on  an  after- 
noon train,  and  they  would  spend  the  night  at  a 
certain  quiet  hotel,  while  I  was  to  go  with  a  lot  of 
fellows  to  another. 

Well,  when  that  afternoon  train  arrived,  the  mother 
was  not  on  it.  Nor  did  she  come.  Without  one 
thought  of  unconventionality,  I  procured  a  room  for 
Kathy  at  the  place  where  she  and  her  mother  would 
have  stopped.  Then  I  left  her  and  went  to  the  other 
hotel  to  join  my  classmates.  But  carnival-mad,  they 
did  not  come  in  at  all,  and  went  back  on  an  express 
which  passed  through  the  town  in  the  early  morning. 

When  Kathy  and  I  reached  home  at  noon,  we 
found  her  mother  white  and  hysterical.  She  would 
listen  to  no  explanations.  She  told  me  that  I  should 
have  brought  Kathy  back  the  night  before — that 
she  had  missed  her  train  and  thus  her  appointment 
with  us.  And  she  told  me  that  I  was  in  honor 
bound  to  marry  Kathy. 

As  I  write  it,  it  seems  such  melodrama.  But  it 
was  very  serious  then.  I  have  never  dared  analyze 
the  mother's  motives.     But  to  my  boyish  eyes  her 

155 


CONTRART  MART 

anxiety  for  her  daughter's  reputation  was  sincere, 
and  I  accepted  the  responsibility  she  laid  upon  me. 

Well,  I  married  her.  And  she  put  her  slender 
arms  about  my  neck  and  cried  and  thanked  me. 

She  was  very  sweet  and  she  was  my — wife — and 
when  I  was  given  a  parish  and  had  introduced  her 
to  my  people,  they  loved  her  for  the  white  gendeness 
which  seemed  purity,  and  for  acquiescent  amiability 
which  seemed — goodness. 

I  have  myself  much  to  blame  in  this — that  I  did 
not  love  her.  All  these  years  I  have  known  it.  But 
that  I  was  utterly  unawakened  I  did  not  know.  Only 
in  the  last  few  months  have  I  learned  it. 

Perhaps  she  missed  what  I  should  have  given  her. 
God  knows.  And  He  only  knows  whether,  if  I  had 
adored  her,  worshiped  her,  things  would  have  been 
different. 

I  was  very  busy.  She  was  not  strong.  She  was 
left  much  to  herself.  The  people  did  not  expect  any 
great  efforts  on  her  part — it  was  enough  that  she 
should  look  like  a  saint — ^that  she  should  lend  herself 
so  perfectly  to  the  ecclesiastical  atmosphere. 

And  now  comes  the  strange,  the  almost  unbeliev- 
able part.  One  morning  when  we  had  been  married 
two  years,  I  left  the  house  to  go  to  the  office  of  one 
of  my  most  intimate  friends  in  the  parish — a  doctor 
who  lived  near  us,  who  was  unmarried,  and  who  had 
prescribed  now  and  then  for  my  wife.  As  I  went 
out,  Kathy  asked  me  to  return  to  him  a  magazine 

156 


A  LETTER 

which  she  handed  me.  It  was  wrapped  and  tied 
with  a  string.  I  had  to  wait  in  the  doctor's  office, 
and  I  unwrapped  the  magazine  and  untied  the  string, 
and  between  the  leaves  I  found  a  note  to — my  friend. 

Why  do  people  do  things  like  that  ?  She  might 
have  telephoned  what  she  had  to  say  ;  she  might 
have  written  it,  and  have  sent  it  through  the  mails. 
But  she  chose  this  way,  and  let  me  carry  to  another 
man  the  message  of  her  love  for  him. 

For  that  was  what  the  note  told.  There  was  no 
doubt,  and  I  walked  out  of  the  office  and  went  home. 

In  other  times  with  other  manners,  I  might  have 
killed  him.  If  I  had  loved  her,  I  might ;  I  cannot 
tell.     But  I  went  home. 

She  seemed  glad  that  I  knew.  And  she  begged 
that  I  would  divorce  her  and  let  her  marry  him. 

Dear  Clear  Eyes,  who  read  this,  what  do  you 
think  of  me  ?     Of  this  story  ? 

And  what  did  I  think  ?  I  who  had  dreamed,  and 
studied  and  preached,  and  had  never — lived  ?  I  who 
had  hated  the  sordid  ?  I  who  had  thought  myself  so 
high  ? 

As  I  married  her,  so  I  gave  her  a  divorce.  And  as 
I  would  not  have  her  name  and  mine  smirched,  I 
separated  myself  from  her,  and  she  won  her  plea  on 
the  ground  of  desertion. 

Do  you  know  what  that  meant  in  my  life  ?  It 
meant  that  I  must  give  up  my  church.  It  meant  that 
I  must  be  willing  to  bear  the  things  which  might 

X57 


CONTRART  MART 

be  said  of  me.  Even  if  the  truth  had  been  known, 
there  would  have  been  little  difference,  except  in 
the  sympathy  which  would  have  been  vouchsafed 
me  as  the  injured  party.  And  1  wanted  no  man's 
pity. 

And  so  I  went  forth,  deprived  of  the  right  to  lift 
up  my  voice  and  preach — deprived  of  the  right  to 
speak  to  the  thousands  who  had  packed  my  church. 
And  now — what  meaning  for  me  had  the  candles  on 
the  altar,  what  meaning  the  voices  in  the  choir? 
I  had  sung  too,  in  the  light  of  the  holy  candles, 
but  it  was  ordained  that  my  voice  must  be  forever 
still. 

I  fought  my  battle  out  one  night  in  the  darkness 
of  my  church.  I  prayed  for  light  and  I  saw  none. 
Oh,  Clear  Eyes,  why  is  light  given  to  a  man  whose 
way  is  hid  ?  I  went  forth  from  that  church  convinced 
that  it  was  all  a  sham.  That  the  lights  meant  noth- 
ing ;  that  the  music  meant  less,  and  that  what  I  had 
preached  had  been  a  poetic  fallacy. 

Some  of  the  people  of  my  church  still  believe  in 
me.  Others,  if  you  should  meet  them,  would  say 
that  she  was  a  saint,  and  that  I  was  the  sinner. 
Well,  if  my  sin  was  weakness,  I  confess  it  I  should, 
perhaps,  never  have  married  her ;  but  having  mar- 
ried her,  could  I  have  held  her  mine  against  her 
will? 

She  married  him.  And  a  year  after,  she  died. 
She  was  a  frail  little  thing,  and  I  have  nothing  harsh 

158 


A    LETTER 

to  say  of  her.  In  a  sense  she  was  a  victim,  first  of 
her  mother's  ambition,  next  of  my  lack  of  love,  and 
last  of  all,  of  his  pursuit 

Perhaps  I  should  not  have  told  you  this.  Except 
my  Bishop,  who  asked  for  the  truth,  and  to  whom  I 
gave  it,  and  whose  gendeness  and  kindness  are  never- 
to-be-forgotten  things— except  for  him,  you  are  the 
only  one  I  have  ever  told  ;  the  only  one  I  shall  ever 
tell. 

But  I  shall  tell  you  this,  and  glory  in  the  telling. 
That  if  I  had  a  life  to  offer  of  honor  and  of  achieve- 
ment, I  should  offer  it  now  to  you.  That  if  I  had 
met  you  as  a  dreaming  boy,  I  would  have  tried  to 
match  my  dreams  to  yours. 

You  may  say  that  with  the  death  of  my  wife  things 
have  changed.  That  I  might  yet  find  a  place  to 
preach,  to  teach — to  speak  to  audiences  and  to  sway 
them. 

But  any  reentrance  into  the  world  means  the 
bringing  up  of  the  old  story — the  question — the 
whispered  comment.  I  do  not  think  that  I  am  a 
coward.  For  the  sake  of  a  cause,  I  could  face  death 
with  courage.  But  I  cannot  face  questioning  eyes 
and  whispering  lips. 

So  I  am  dedicated  for  all  my  future  to  mediocrity. 
And  what  has  mediocrity  to  do  with  you,  who  have 
"  never  turned  your  back,  but  marched  face  for- 
ward "  ? 

And  so  I  am  going  away.  Not  so  quickly  that 
159 


CONTRART  MART 

there  will  be  comment.  But  quickly  enough  to  rC" 
lieve  you  of  future  embarrassment  in  my  behalf. 

I  do  not  know  that  you  will  answer  this.  But  I 
know  that  whatever  your  verdict,  whether  I  am  still 
to  have  the  grace  of  your  friendship  or  to  lose  it  for- 
ever, I  am  glad  to  have  lived  this  one  year  in  the 
Tower  Rooms.  I  am  glad  to  have  known  the  one 
woman  who  has  given  me  back — my  boyish  dreams 
of  aJl  women. 

And  now  a  last  line.  If  ever  in  all  the  years  to 
come  you  should  have  need  of  me,  I  am  at  your 
service.  I  shall  count  nothing  too  hard  that  you 
may  ask.  I  am  whimsically  aware  that  in  the  midst 
of  all  this  darkness  and  tragedy  my  offer  is  that  of 
the  Mouse  to  the  Lion.  But  there  came  a  day  when 
the  Mouse  paid  its  debt.  Ask  me  to  pay  mine,  and 
I  will  come — from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

This  was  the  letter  which  Mary  found  the  next 
morning  on  her  desk  in  the  little  office  room  into 
which  Roger  had  been  shown  on  the  night  of  the 
wedding.  She  recognized  his  firm  script  and  found 
herself  trembling  as  she  touched  the  square  white 
envelope. 

But  she  laid  the  letter  aside  until  she  had  given 
Susan  her  orders,  until  she  had  given  other  orders 
over  the  telephone,  until  she  had  interviewed  the 
lurnace  man  and  the  butcher's  boy,  and  had  written 
and  mailed  certain  checks. 

x6o 


A  LETTER 

Then  she  took  the  letter  with  her  to  her  own  room, 
locked  the  door  and  read  it. 

Constance,  knocking  a  little  later,  was  let  in,  and 
found  her  sister  dressed  and  ready  for  the  street 

"  I've  a  dozen  engagements,"  Mary  said.  She 
was  drawing  on  her  gloves  and  smiling.  She  was, 
perhaps,  a  little  pale,  but  that  the  Mary  of  to-day 
was  different  from  the  Mary  of  yesterday  was  not 
visible  from  outward  signs. 

"  I  am  going  first  to  the  dressmaker,  to  see  about 
having  that  lovely  frock  you  brought  me  fitted  for 
Delilah's  tea  dance ;  then  I'll  meet  you  at  Mrs. 
Carey's  luncheon.  And  after  that  will  be  our  drive 
with  Porter,  and  the  private  view  at  the  Corcoran, 
then  two  teas,  and  later  the  dinner  at  Mrs.  Bigelow's. 
I'm  afraid  it  will  be  pretty  strenuous  for  you,  Con- 
stance." 

"  I  sha'n't  try  to  take  in  the  teas.  I'll  come  home 
and  lie  down  before  I  have  to  dress  for  dinner." 

As  she  followed  out  her  programme  for  the  day, 
Mary  was  conscious  that  she  was  doing  it  well.  She 
made  conscientious  plans  with  her  dressmaker,  she 
gave  herself  gayly  to  the  light  chatter  of  the  lunch- 
eon ;  during  the  drive  she  matched  Porter's  exuber- 
ant mood  with  her  own  ;  she  viewed  the  pictures  and 
made  intelligent  comments. 

After  the  view,  Constance  went  home  in  Porter's 
car,  and  Mary  was  left  at  a  house  on  Dupont  Circle. 
Porter's  ayes  had  begged  that  she    would  let   him 

£6l 


CONTRART  MART 

come  with  her,  but  she  had  refused  to  meet  his  eyes, 
and  had  sent  him  off. 

As  she  passed  through  the  ghmmer  of  the  golden 
rooms,  she  bowed  and  smiled  to  the  people  that  she 
knew,  she  joked  with  Jerry  Tuckerman,  who  insisted 
on  looking  after  her  and  getting  her  an  ice.  And 
then,  as  soon  as  she  decently  could,  she  got  away,  and 
came  out  into  the  open  air,  drawing  a  long  breath, 
as  one  who  has  been  caged  and  who  makes  a  break 
for  freedom. 

She  did  not  go  to  the  other  tea.  All  day  she  had 
lived  in  a  dream,  doing  that  which  was  required  of 
her  and  doing  it  well.  But  from  now  until  the  time 
that  she  must  go  home  and  dress  for  dinner,  she 
would  give  herself  up  to  thoughts  of  Roger  Poole. 

She  turned  down  Connecticut  Avenue,  and  walk- 
ing lightly  and  quickly  came  at  last  to  the  old  church, 
where  all  her  life  she  had  worshiped.  At  this  hour 
there  was  no  service,  and  she  knelt  for  a  moment, 
then  sat  back  in  her  pew,  glad  of  the  sense  of  abso- 
lute immunity  from  interruption. 

And  as  she  sat  there  in  the  stillness,  one  sentence 
from  his  letter  stood  out. 

"  And  now  what  meaning  for  me  had  the  candles 
on  the  altar,  what  meaning  the  voices  in  the  choir  ? 
I  had  sung,  too,  in  the  light  of  the  candles,  but  it  was 
ordained  that  my  voice  must  be  forever  still." 

This  to  Mary  was  the  great  tragedy — his  loss  of 
courage,  his  loss  of  faith — his  acceptance  of  a  passive 

162 


A  LETTER 

future.  Resolutely  she  had  conquered  all  the  shiv- 
ering agony  which  had  swept  over  her  as  she  had 
read  of  that  sordid  marriage  and  its  sequence.  Res- 
olutely she  had  risen  above  the  faintness  which 
threatened  to  submerge  her  as  the  whole  of  that  un- 
expected history  was  presented  to  her ;  resolutely 
she  had  fought  against  a  pity  which  threatened  to 
overwhelm  her. 

Resolutely  she  had  made  herself  face  with  clear 
eyes  the  conclusion  ;  life  had  been  too  much  for  him 
and  he  had  surrendered  to  fate. 

To  say  that  his  letter  in  its  personal  relation  to 
herself  had  not  thrilled  her  would  be  to  underes- 
timate the  warmth  of  her  friendship  for  him  ;  if  there 
was  more  than  friendship,  she  would  not  admit  it. 
There  had  been  a  moment  when,  shaken  and  stirred 
by  his  throbbing  words,  she  had  laid  down  his  letter 
and  had  asked  herself,  palpitating,  "  Has  love  come 
to  me — at  last  ? "  But  she  had  not  answered  it. 
She  knew  that  she  would  never  answer  it  until 
Roger  Poole  found  a  meaning  in  life  which  was,  as 
yet,  hidden  from  him. 

But  how  could  she  best  help  him  to  find  that  mean- 
ing? Dimly  she  felt  that  it  was  to  be  through  her 
that  he  would  find  it.  And  he  was  going  away. 
And  before  he  went,  she  must  light  for  him  some 
little  beacon  of  hope. 

It  was  dark  in  the  church  now  except  for  the  candle 
on  the  altar. 

163 


CONTRART  MART 

She  knelt  once  more  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 
She  had  the  simple  faith  of  a  child,  and  as  a  child 
she  had  knelt  in  this  same  pew  and  had  asked  confi- 
dently for  the  things  she  desired,  and  she  had  be- 
lieved that  her  prayers  would  be  answered. 

It  was  late  when  she  left  the  church.  And  she  was 
late  in  getting  home.  All  the  lower  part  of  the  house 
was  lighted,  but  there  was  no  light  in  the  Tower  Rooms. 
Roger,  who  dined  down-town,  would  not  come  until 
they  were  on  their  way  to  Mrs.  Bigelow's. 

As  she  passed  through  the  garden,  she  saw  that  on 
a  bush  near  the  fountain  bloomed  a  late  rose.  She 
stooped  and  picked  it,  and  flitting  in  the  dusk  down 
the  path,  she  entered  the  door  which  led  to  the  Tower 
stairway. 

And  when,  an  hour  later.  Roger  Poole  came  into 
the  quiet  house,  weary  and  worn  from  the  strain  of  a 
day  in  which  he  had  tried  to  read  his  letter  with 
Mary's  eyes,  he  found  his  room  dark,  except  for  the 
flicker  of  the  fire. 

Feeling  his  way  through  the  dimness,  he  pulled  at 
last  the  little  chain  of  the  electric  lamp  on  his  table. 
The  light  at  once  drew  a  circle  of  gold  on  the  dark, 
dull  oak.  And  within  that  circle  he  saw  the  answer 
to  his  letter. 

Wide  open  and  illumined,  lay  John  Ballard's  old 
Bible.  And  across  the  pages,  fresh  and  fragrant  as 
the  friendship  which  she  had  given  him,  was  the  late 
♦•ose  which  Mary  had  picked  in  the  garden. 

164 


CHAPTER  XII 

In  Which  Mary  and  Roger  Have  Their  Hour ;  and 
in  Which  a  Tea-Drinking  Ends  in  What  Might 
Have  Been  a  Tragedy. 

TO  Mary,  possessed  and  swayed  by  the  letter 
which  she  had  received  from  Roger,  it  seemed 
a  strange  thing  that  the  rest  of  the  world  moved 
calmly  and  unconsciously  forward. 

The  letter  had  come  to  her  on  Saturday.  On  Sun- 
day morning  everybody  went  to  church.  Every- 
body dined  afterward,  unfashionably,  at  two  o'clock, 
and  later  everybody  motored  out  to  the  Park. 

That  is,  everybody  but  Mary  I 

She  declined  on  the  ground  of  other  things  to  do, 

"  There'll  be  five  of  you  anyhow  with  Aunt  Fran- 
ces and  Grace,"  she  said,  '*  and  I'll  have  tea  for  you 
when  you  come  back." 

So  Constance  and  Gordon  and  Aunt  Isabelle  had 
gone  off,  and  with  Barry  at  Leila's,  Mary  was  at  last 
alone. 

Alone  in  the  house  with  Roger  Poole ! 

Her  little  plans  were  all  made,  and  she  went  to 
work  at  once  to  execute  them. 

It  was  a  dull  afternoon,  and  the  old-fashioned 
drawing-room,  with  its  dying  fire,  and  pale  carpet, 

165 


CONTRART  MART 

its  worn  stuffed  furniture  and  pallid  mirrors  looked 
dreary. 

Mary  had  Susan  Jenks  replenish  the  fire.  Then 
she  drew  up  to  it  one  of  the  deep  stuffed  chairs  and 
a  lighter  one  of  mahogany,  which  matched  the  low 
tea-table  which  was  at  the  left  of  the  fireplace.  She 
set  a  tapestry  screen  so  that  it  cut  off  this  corner 
from  the  rest  of  the  room  and  from  the  door. 

Gordon  had  brought,  the  night  before,  a  great  box 
of  flowers,  and  there  were  valley  lilies  among  them. 
Mary  put  the  lilies  on  the  table  in  a  jar  of  gray-green 
pottery.  Then  she  went  up-stairs  and  changed  the 
street  costume  which  she  had  worn  to  church  for  her 
old  green  velvet  gown.  When  she  came  down,  the 
fire  was  snapping,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  lilies 
made  sweet  the  screened  space — Susan  had  placed 
"y  the  little  table  a  red  lacquered  tray,  and  an  old 
•'ver  kettle. 

2>usan  had  also  delivered  the  note  which  Mary  had 
given  her  to  the  Tower  Pooms. 

Until  Roger  came  down  Mary  readjusted  and 
rearranged  everything.  She  felt  like  a  little  girl 
who  plays  at  keeping  house.  Some  new  sense 
seemed  waked  within  her,  a  sense  which  made  her 
alive  to  the  coziness  and  comfort  and  seclusion  of 
this  cut-off  corner  She  found  herself  trying  to  see  it 
all  through  Roger  Poole's  eyes. 

When  he  came  at  last  around  the  corner  of  the 
screen,  she  smiled  and  gave  him  her  hand, 

1 66 


THEIR  HOUR 

**  This  is  to  be  our  hour  together.  I  had  to  plan 
for  it.  Did  you  ever  feel  that  the  world  was  so  full 
of  people  that  there  was  no  corner  in  which  to  be 
—alone?" 

As  he  sat  down  in  the  big  chair,  and  the  light 
shone  on  his  face,  she  saw  how  tired  he  looked,  as  if 
the  days  and  the  nights  since  she  had  seen  him  had 
been  days  and  nights  of  vigil. 

She  felt  a  surging  sense  of  sympathy,  which  set 
her  trembling  as  she  had  trembled  when  she  had 
touched  his  letter  as  it  had  laid  on  her  desk,  but 
when  she  spoke  her  voice  was  steady. 

"  I  am  going  to  make  you  a  cup  of  tea — then  we 
can  talk." 

He  watched  her  as  she  made  it,  her  deft  hands 
unadorned,  except  by  the  one  quaint  ring,  the  white- 
ness of  her  skin  set  off  by  her  green  gown,  the  white- 
ness of  her  soul  symbolized  by  the  lilies. 

He  leaned  forward  and  spoke  suddenly.  "  Mary 
Ballard,"  he  said,  "  if  I  ever  reach  paradise,  I  shall 
pray  that  it  may  be  like  this,  with  the  golden  light 
and  the  fragrante,  and  you  in  the  midst  of  it." 

Earnestly  over  the  lilies,  she  looked  at  him. 
"  Then  you  believe  in  Paradise  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  think  that  in  some  blessed  future 
state  I  should  come  upon  you  in  a  garden  of  lilies." 

"  Perhaps  you  will."  She  was  smiling,  but  her  hand 
shook. 

She  felt  shy,  almost  tongue-tied.  She  made  him 
167 


CONTRART  MART 

his  tea,  and  gave  him  a  cup  ;  then  she  spoke  of  conio 
monplaces,  and  the  litde  kettle  boiled  and  bubbled 
and  sang  as  if  there  were  no  sorrow  or  sadness  in 
the  whole  wide  world. 

She  came  at  last  timidly  to  the  thing  she  had  to 
say. 

"  I  don't  quite  know  how  to  begin  about  your  let- 
ter. You  see  when  I  read  it,  it  wasn't  easy  for  me  at 
first  to  think  straight.  I  hadn't  thought  of  you  as 
having  any  such  background  to  your  life.  Somehow 
the  outlines  I  had  filled  in  were — different.  I  am 
not  quite  sure  what  I  had  thought — only  it  had  been 
nothing  like — this." 

"  I  know.  You  could  not  have  been  expected  to 
imagine  such  a  past." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  your  past  which  weighs  so  heavily 
— on  my  heart ;  it  is  your  future." 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  had  not  meant  to 
say  it  just  that  way.  But  it  had  come — her  voice 
breaking  on  the  last  words. 

He  did  not  speak  at  once,  and  then  he  said :  "  I 
have  no  right  to  trouble  you  with  my  future." 

"  But  I  want  to  be  troubled." 

"  I  shall  not  let  you.  I  shall  not  ask  that  of  your 
friendship.  Last  night  when  I  came  back  to  my 
rooms  I  found  a  rose  blooming  upon  the  pages  of  a 
book.  It  seemed  to  tell  me  that  I  had  not  lost  your 
friendship  ;  and  you  have  given  me  this  hour.  This 
is  all  I  have  a  right  to  ask  of  your  generosity." 

l68 


THEIR  HOUR 

She  moved  the  jar  of  lilies  aside,  so  that  there 
might  be  nothing  between  them.  "If  I  am  yom 
friend,  I  must  help  you,"  she  said,  "  or  what  would 
my  friendship  be  worth  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  help,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "  not  in  the 
sense  that  I  think  you  mean  it.  My  past  has  made 
my  future.  I  cannot  throw  myself  into  the  fight 
again.  I  know  that  I  have  been  called  all  sorts  of  a 
coward  for  not  facing  life.  But  I  could  face  armies, 
if  it  were  anything  tangible.  I  could  do  battle  with 
a  sword  or  a  gun  or  my  fists,  if  there  were  a  visible 
adversary.  But  whispers — you  can't  kill  tliem  ;  and 
at  last  they — kill  you." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  fight,"  she  said,  and  now  be- 
hind the  whiteness  of  her  skin  there  was  a  radiance, 
"  I  don't  want  you  to  fight.  I  want  you  to  deliver 
your  message." 

"  What  message  ?  " 

"  The  message  that  every  man  who  stands  in  the 
pulpit  must  have  for  the  world,  else  he  has  no  right 
to  stand  there." 

•*  You  think  then  that  I  had  no  message  ?  " 

"I  think,"  and  now  her  hand  went  out  to  him 
across  the  table,  as  if  she  would  soften  the  words, 
"  I  think  that  if  you  had  felt  yourself  called  to  do  that 
one  thing,  that  nothing  would  have  swayed  you  from 
it — there  are  people  not  in  the  churches,  who  never 
go  to  church,  who  want  what  you  have  to  give — there 
are  the  highways  and  hedges.     Oh,  surely,  not  all  of 

i6g 


CONTRART  MART 

the  people  worth  preaching  to  are  the  ones  in  the 
pews." 

She  flung  the  challenge  at  him  directly. 

And  he  flung  it  back  to  her,  *'  If  I  had  had  such  a 
woman  as  you  in  my  life " 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't:'  The  radiance  died.  "  What 
has  any  woman  to  do  with  it  ?  It  is  you — yourself, 
who  must  stand  the  test." 

After  the  ringing  words  there  was  dead  silence. 
Roger  sat  leaning  forward,  his  eyes  not  upon  her, 
but  upon  the  fire.  In  his  white  face  there  was  no 
hint  of  weakness  ;  there  was,  rather,  pride,  obstinacy, 
the  ruggedness  of  inflexible  purpose. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said  at  last,  "  that  I  have  not 
""".Dod  the  test. ' 

Her  clear  eyes  met  his  squarely.  "  Then  meet  it 
now." 

For  a  moment  he  blazed.  "  I  know  now  what 
you  think  of  me,  that  I  am  a  man  who  has 
shirked." 

"  You  know  I  do  not  think  that." 

He  surrendered.  "  I  do  know  it  And  I  need 
your  help." 

Shaken  by  their  emotion,  they  became  conscious 
that  this  was  indeed  their  hour.  She  told  him  all 
that  she  had  dreamed  he  might  do.  Her  color 
came  and  went  as  she  drew  the  picture  of  his  future. 
Some  of  the  advice  she  gave  was  girlish,  impracti- 
cable, but  through  it  all  ran  the  thread  of  her  faith 

170 


THEIR  HOUR 

in  him.     She  felt  that  she  had  the  solution.     That 
through  service  he  was  to  find — God. 

It  was  a  wonderful  hour  for  Roger  Poole.  An 
hour  which  was  to  shine  like  a  star  in  his  memory. 
Mary's  mind  had  a  largeness  of  vision,  the  ability  to 
rise  above  the  lesser  things  in  order  to  reach  the 
greater,  which  seemed  super-feminine.  It  was  not 
until  afterward  when  he  reviewed  what  they  had 
said,  that  he  was  conscious  that  she  had  placed  the 
emphasis  on  what  he  was  to  do.  Not  once  had  she 
spoken  of  what  had  been  done — not  once  had  she 
spoken  of  his  wife. 

"You  mustn't  bury  yourself.  You  must  find  a 
way  to  reach  first  one  group  and  then  another.  And 
after  a  time  you'll  begin  to  feel  that  you  can  face 
the  world." 

He  winced.  As  she  put  it  into  words,  he  began  to 
see  himself  as  others  must  have  seen  him.  And  the 
review  was  not  a  pleasant  one. 

In  a  sense  that  hour  with  Mary  Ballard  in  the 
screened  space  by  the  fire  was  the  hour  of  Roger 
Poole's  spiritual  awakening.  He  realized  for  the 
first  time  that  he  had  missed  the  meaning  of  the 
candles  on  the  altar,  the  voices  in  the  choir ;  he  had 
missed  the  knowledge  that  one  must  spend  and  be 
spent  in  the  service  of  humanity. 

"  I  must  think  it  over,"  he  said.  "  You  mustn't 
expect  too  much  of  me  all  at  once." 

**  I  shall  expect — everything" 
171 


CONTRART  MART 

As  she  spoke  and  smiled,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  his  old  garment  of  fear  slipped  from  him — ^as  if 
he  were  clothed  in  the  shining  armor  of  her  con- 
fidence in  him. 

They  had  little  time  to  talk  after  that,  for  it  was 
not  long  before  they  heard  without  the  bray  of  a 
motor  horn. 

Roger  rose  at  once. 

"  I  must  go  before  they  come,"  he  said. 

But  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  No,"  she 
said,  "  you  are  not  to  go.  You  are  never  going  to 
run  away  from  the  world  again.  Set  aside  the 
screen,  please — and  stay." 

Porter,  picked  up  on  the  way,  came  in  with  the 
others,  to  behold  that  glowing  corner,  and  those  two 
together. 

With  his  red  crest  flaming,  he  advanced  upon 
them. 

"  Somebody  said  '  tea.'    May  I  have  some,  Mary  ?  " 

"  When  the  kettle  boils."  She  had  risen,  and  was 
iiolding  out  her  hand  to  him. 

As  the  two  men  shook  hands,  Porter  was  conscious 
of  some  subtle  change  in  Roger.  What  had  come 
over  the  man — had  he  dared  to  make  love  to  Mary  ? 

And  Mary  ?     He  looked  at  her. 

She  was  serenely  filling  her  tea  ball.  She  had 
lighted  the  lamp  beneath  her  kettle,  and  the  blue 
flame  seemed  to  cast  her  still  further  back  among  the 
shadows  of  her  corner. 

172 


THEIR  HOUR 

Grace  Clendenning  and  Aunt  Frances  had  come 
back  with  the  rest  for  tea.  Grace's  head,  with 
Porter's,  gave  the  high  lights  of  the  scene.  Barry 
had  nicknamed  them  the  "  red-headed  woodpeckers,'^ 
and  the  name  seemed  justified. 

While  Porter  devoted  himself  to  Grace,  however, 
he  was  acutely  conscious  of  every  movement  of 
Mary's.  Why  had  she  given  up  her  afternoon  to 
Roger  Poole?  He  had  asked  if  he  might  come, 
and  she  had  said,  "  after  four,"  and  now  it  was  after 
four,  and  the  hour  which  she  would  not  give  him 
had  been  granted  to  this  lodger  in  the  Tower 
Rooms. 

It  has  been  said  before  that  Porter  was  not  a  snob, 
but  to  him  Mary's  attitude  of  friendliness  toward  this 
man,  who  was  not  one  of  them,  was  a  matter  of 
increasing  irritation.  What  was  there  about  this 
tall  thin  chap  with  the  tired  eyes  to  attract  a  woman  ? 
Porter  was  not  conceited,  but  he  knew  that  he 
possessed  a  certain  value.  Of  what  value  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world  was  Roger  Poole — a  government 
clerk,  without  ambition,  handsome  in  his  dark  way, 
but  pale  and  surrounded  by  an  air  of  gloom  ? 

But  to-night  it  was  as  if  the  gloom  had  lifted. 
To-night  Roger  shone  as  he  had  shone  on  the  night 
of  the  Thanksgiving  party — he  seemed  suddenly 
young  and  splendid — the  peer  of  them  all. 

It  came  about  naturally  that,  as  they  drank  their 
tea,  some  one  asked  him  to  recite. 

173 


CONTRART  MART 

"  Please  " — it  was  Mary  who  begged. 

Porter  jealously  intercepted  the  look  which  flashed 
between  them,  but  could  make  nothing  of  it. 

"The  Whittington  one  is  too  long,"  Roger  stated, 
"  and  I  haven't  Pittiwitz  for  inspiration — but  here's 
another." 

Leaning  forward  with  his  eyes  on  the  fire,  he  gave 
it. 

It  was  a  man's  poem.  It  was  in  the  English  of 
the  hearty  times  of  Ben  Jonson  and  of  Kit  Marlowe 
— ^and  every  swinging  line  rang  true. 

*•  What  will  you  say  when  the  world  is  dying  ? 
What  when  the  last  wild  midnight  falls, 
Dark,  too  dark  for  the  bat  to  be  flying 
Round  the  ruins  of  old  St.  Paul's  ? 
What  will  be  last  of  the  lights  to  perish  ? 
What  but  the  little  red  ring  we  knew, 
Lighting  the  hands  and  the  hearts  that  cherish 
A  fire,  a  fire,  and  a  friend  or  two  I  " 

Chorus  : 

"  Up  now,  answer  me,  tell  me  true. 
What  will  be  last  of  the  stars  to  perish  ? 
— The  fire  that  lighteth  a  friend  or  two." 

As  the  last  brave  verse  was  ended,  Gordon 
Richardson  said,  "  By  Jove,  how  it  comes  back  to  me 
■■ — you  used  to  recite  Poe's  '  Bells  '  at  school." 

Roger  laughed.  "  Yes.  I  fancy  I  made  them 
boom  toward  the  end." 

174 


THEIR  HOUR 

"  You  used  to  make  me  shiver  and  shake  in  my 
shoes." 

Aunt  Frances*  voice  broke  in  crisply,  "What  do  you 
mean,  Gordon  ;  were  you  at  school  with  Mr.  Poole  ?  " 

"  Yes.     St.  Martin's,  Aunt  Frances.'** 

The  name  had  a  magic  effect  upon  Mrs.  Clenden- 
aing ;  the  boys  of  St.  Martin's  were  of  the  elect. 

"Poole?"  she  said.  "Are  you  one  of  the  New 
Vork  Pooles  ?  " 

Roger  nodded.  "  Yes.  With  a  Southern  grafting 
—-my  mother  was  a  Carew." 

He  was  glad  now  to  tell  it.  Let  them  follow  what 
taues  they  would.  He  was  ready  for  them.  Hence- 
forth nothing  was  to  be  hidden. 

"  I  am  going  down  next  week,"  he  continued,  "  to 
stay  for  a  time  with  a  cousin  of  my  mother's — Miss 
Patty  Carew.  She  lives  still  in  the  old  manor  house 
which  was  my  grandfather's — she  hadn't  much  but 
poverty  and  the  old  house  for  an  inheritance,  but  it 
is  still  a  charming  place." 

Aunt  Frances  was  intent,  however,  on  the  New 
York  branch  of  his  family  tree. 

"  Was  your  grandfather  Angus  Poole?" 

"  Yes." 

Grace  was  wickedly  conscious  of  her  mother's  state 
of  mind.  No  one  could  afford  to  ignore  any  de- 
scendant of  Angus  Poole.  To  be  sure,  a  second 
generation  had  squandered  the  fortune  he  had  left, 
but  his  name  was  still  one  to  conjure  with. 

^75 


CONTRART  MART 

**I  never  dreamed "  said  Aunt  Frances. 

"  Naturally,"  said  Roger,  and  there  was  a  twinkle 
in  his  eyes.  "  I  am  afraid  I'm  not  a  credit  to  my 
bard-headed  financier  of  a  grandfather." 

It  seemed  to  Mary  that  for  the  first  time  she  was 
seeing  him  as  he  might  have  been  before  his  trouble 
came  upon  him.  And  she  was  swept  forward  to  the 
thought  of  what  he  might  yet  be.  She  grew  warm 
and  rosy  in  her  delight  that  he  should  thus  show 
himself  to  her  people.  She  looked  up  to  find  Porter's 
accusing  eyes  fixed  on  her  ;  and  in  the  grip  of  a  sud- 
den shyness,  she  gave  herself  again  to  her  tea- 
making. 

"  Surely  some  of  you  will  have  another  cup  ?  " 

It  developed  that  Aunt  Frances  would,  and  that 
the  water  was  cold,  and  that  the  little  lamp  was 
empty  of  alcohol. 

Mary  filled  it,  and,  her  hand  shaking  from  her 
inward  excitement,  let  the  alcohol  overflow  on  the 
tray  and  on  the  kettle  frame.  She  asked  for  a  match 
and  Gordon  gave  her  one. 

Then,  nobody  knew  how  it  happened  !  The  flames 
seemed  to  sweep  up  in  a  blue  sheet  toward  the  lace 
frills  in  the  front  of  Mary's  gown.  It  leaped  toward 
her  face.  Constance  screamed.  Then  Roger  reached 
her,  and  she  was  in  his  arms,  her  face  crushed  against 
the  thickness  of  his  coat,  his  hands  snatching  at  hei 
fp.lls. 

It  was  over  in  a  moment.     The  flames  were  out 
176 


THEIR  HOUR 

Very  gently  he  loosed  his  arms.  She  lay  against: 
his  shoulder  white  and  still.  Her  face  was  un- 
touched, but  across  her  throat,  which  the  low  collar 
had  left  exposed,  was  a  hot  red  mark.  And  a  little 
lock  of  hair  was  singed  at  one  side,  her  frills  were  in 
ruins. 

He  put  her  into  a  chair,  and  they  gathered  around 
her — a  solicitous  group.  Porter  knelt  beside  her. 
*'  Mary,  Mary,"  he  kept  saying,  and  she  smiled 
weakly,  as  his  voice  broke  on  "  Contrary  Mary." 

Gordon  had  saved  the  table  from  destruction. 
But  the  flame  had  caught  the  lilies,  crisping  them, 
and  leaving  them  black.  Constance  was  shaken  by 
the  shock,  and  Aunt  Frances  kept  asking  wildly, 
"  How  did  it  happen  ?  " 

"  I  spilled  the  alcohol  when  I  filled  it,"  Mary  said. 
"  It  was  a  silly  thing  to  do — if  I  had  had  on  one  of  my 
thinner  gowns "     She  shuddered  and  stopp)ed. 

"  I  shall  send  you  an  electric  outfit  to-morrow," 
Porter  announced.  *' Don't  fool  with  that  thing 
again.  Mary." 

Roger  stood  behind  her  chair,  with  his  arms  folded 
on  the  top.  and  said  nothing.  There  was  really 
nothing  for  him  to  say,  but  there  were  many  things 
to  think.  He  had  saved  that  dear  face  from  flame 
or  flaw,  the  clear  eyes  had  been  hidden  against  his 
shoulder — his  fingers  smarted  where  he  had  clutched 
at  her  burning  frills. 

Porter  Bigelow  might  take  possession  of  her  now, 
177 


CONTRART  MART 

he  might  give  her  electric  outfits,  he  might  call  her 
by  her  first  name,  but  it  had  not  been  Porter  who 
had  saved  her  from  the  flames ;  it  had  not  been 
Porter  who  had  held  her  in  his  arms. 


178 


CHAPTER  XIII 

In  Which  the  Whole  World  is  at  Sixes  and  Sevens ; 
and  in  Which  Life  is  Looked  Upon  as  a  Great 

Adventure. 

IT  had  been  decided  that,  for  a  time  at  least, 
Gordon  and  Constance  should  stay  with  Mary. 
In  the  spring-  they  would  again  go  back  to  London 
Grace  Clendenning  and  Aunt  Frances  were  already 
installed  for  the  winter  at  their  hotel. 

The  young  couple  would  occupy  the  Sanctum  and 
the  adjoining  room,  and  Mary  was  to  take  on  an 
extra  maid  to  help  Susan  Jenks. 

In  all  her  planning,  Mary  had  a  sense  of  the  per- 
vasiveness of  Gordon  Richardson.  With  masculine 
confidence  in  his  ability,  he  took  upon  himself  not 
only  his  wife's  problems,  but  Mary's.  Mary  was 
forced  to  admit,  even  while  she  rebelled,  that  his 
judgments  were  usually  wise.  Yet,  she  asked  her- 
self, what  right  had  an  outsider  to  dictate  in  matters 
which  pertained  to  herself  and  Barry  ?  And  what 
right  had  he  to  offer  her  board  for  Constance  ?  Con- 
stance, who  was  her  very  own  ? 

But  when  she  had  indignantly  voiced  her  objec- 
tion to  Gordon,  he  had  laughed.     "  You  are  like  all 


CONTRART  MART 

women,  Mary,"  he  had  said,  "  and  of  course  I  ap- 
preciate your  point  of  view  and  your  hospitality. 
But  if  you  think  that  I  am  going  to  let  my  wife  stay 
here  and  add  to  your  troubles  and  expense  without 
giving  adequate  compensation,  you  are  vastly  mis- 
taken. If  you  won't  let  us  pay,  we  won't  stay,  and 
that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

Here  was  masculine  firmness  against  which  Mary 
might  rage  impotently.  After  all,  Constance  was 
Gordon's  wife,  and  he  could  carry  her  off. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  yielding  stiffly,  "  you  must 
do  as  you  think  best." 

"  I  shall,"  he  said,  easily,  "  and  I  will  write  you  a 
sheck  now,  and  you  can  have  it  to  setde  any  im- 
mediate demands  upon  your  exchequer.  I  shall  be 
away  a  good  deal,  and  I  want  Constance  to  be  with 
you  and  Aunt  Isabelle.  It  is  a  favor  to  me,  Mary, 
to  have  her  here.  You  mustn't  add  to  my  obliga- 
tions by  making  me  feel  too  heavily  in  your  debt." 

He  smiled  as  he  said  it,  and  Gordon  had  a  nice 
smile.  And  presently  Mary  found  herself  smiling 
back- 

*'  Gordon,"  she  said,  in  a  half  apology,  "  Porter 
calls  me  Contrary  Mary.  Maybe  I  am — but  you 
see,  Constance  was  my  sister  before  she  was  your 
wife*' 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  her. 
**  And  you've  had  twenty  years  more  ot  her  dian  I 
—'but  please  God,  Mary,  I  am  going  to  have  twenty 

1 80 


SIXES  AND  SEVENS    , 

beautiful  years  ahead  of  me  to  share  with  her — I 
hope  it  may  be  three  times  twenty." 

His  voice  shook,  and  in  that  moment  Mary  felt 
nearer  to  him  than  ever  before. 

"  Oh,  Gordon,"  she  said,  "  I'm  a  horrid  litde  thing. 
I've  been  jealous  because  you  took  Constance  away 
from  me.  But  now  I'm  glad  you — took  her,  and  I 
hope  I'll  live  to  dance  at  your — golden  wedding." 
And  then,  most  unexpectedly,  she  found  herself 
sobbing,  and  Gordon  was  patting  her  on  the  back  in 
a  big-brotherly  way,  and  saying  that  he  didn't  blame 
her  a  bit,  and  that  if  anybody  wanted  to  take  Con- 
stance away  from  him,  they'd  have  to  do  it  over  his 
dead  body. 

Then  he  wrote  the  check,  and  Mary  took  it,  and 
in  the  knowledge  of  his  munificence,  felt  the  relief 
from  certain  financial  burdens. 

Before  he  left  her,  Gordon,  hesitating,  referred 
gravely  to  another  subject. 

"  And  it  will  be  better  for  you  to  have  Constance 
here  if  Barry  goes  away." 

"Barry?"  breathlessly. 

"  Yes.     Don't  you  think  he  ought  to  go,  Mary  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  stubbornly ;  "  where  could  he  go  ?  " 

"  Anywhere  away  from  Leila.  He  mustn't  marry 
that  child.  Not  yet — not  until  he  has  proved  him- 
self a  man." 

The  blow  hit  her  heavily.  Yet  her  sense  of  justice 
told  her  that  he  was  right. 

i8i 


CONTRART  MART 

**  I  can't  talk  about  it,"  she  said,  unsteadily  ;  "  Barry 
is  all  I  have  left." 

He  rose  "  Poor  little  girl.  We  must  see  how 
we  can  work  it  out.  But  we've  got  to  work  it  out 
It  mustn't  drift." 

Left  alone,  Mary  sat  down  at  her  desk  and  faced 
the  future.    With  Roger  gone,  and  Barry  going 

And  the  Tower  Rooms  empty  I 

She  shivered.  Before  her  stretched  the  darkness 
and  storms  of  a  long  winter.  Even  Constance's 
coming  would  not  make  up  for  it.  And  yet  a  vear 
ago  Constance  had  seemed  everything. 

She  crossed  the  hall  to  the  dining-room  and  looked 
out  of  the  window.  The  garden  was  dead.  The 
fountain  had  ceased  to  play.  But  the  little  bronze 
boy  still  flung  his  gay  dej&ance  to  wind  and  weather. 

Pittiwitz,  following  her,  murmured  a  mewing  com- 
plaint Mary  picked  her  up  ;  since  Roger's  going 
the  gray  cat  had  kept  away  from  the  emptiness  of 
the  upper  rooms. 

.With  the  little  purring  creature  hugged  close, 
Mary  reviewed  her  worries — the  world  was  at  sixes 
and  sevens.  Even  Porter  was  proving  difficult. 
Since  the  Sunday  when  Roger  had  saved  her  from 
the  fire,  Porter  had  adopted  an  air  of  possession. 
He  claimed  her  at  all  times  and  seasons  ;  she  had  a 
sense  of  being  caught  in  a  web  woven  of  kindness 
and  thoughtfulness  and  tender  care,  but  none  the  less 
A  web  which  held  her  fast  and  against  her  will. 


SIXES  AND  SEVENS 

Whimsically  it  came  to  her  that  the  four  men  in 
her  life  were  opposed  in  groups  of  two :  Gordon  and 
Porter  stood  arrayed  on  the  side  of  logical  prefer- 
ences ;  Barry  and  Roger  on  the  side  of  illogical 
sympathies. 

Gordon  had  conveyed  to  her,  in  rather  subde 
fashion,  his  disapproval  of  Roger.  It  was  only  in  an 
occasional  phrase,  such  as  "  Poor  Poole,"  or  "  if  all 
of  his  story  were  known."  But  Mary  had  grasped 
that,  from  the  standpoint  of  her  brother-in-law,  a  man 
who  had  failed  to  fulfil  the  promise  of  his  youth 
might  be  dismissed  as  a  social  derelict. 

As  for  Barry — the  situation  with  regard  to  him  had 
become  acute.  His  first  disappearance  after  the 
coming  of  Constance  had  resulted  in  Gordon's  as- 
suming the  responsibility  of  the  search  for  him.  He 
had  found  Barry  in  a  little  town  on  the  upper 
Potomac,  ostensibly  on  a  fishing  trip,  and  again  there 
was  a  need  for  fighting  dragons. 

But  Gordon  did  not  fight  with  the  same  weapons 
as  Roger  Poole.  His  arguments  had  been  shrewd, 
keen,  but  unsympathetic.  And  the  result  had  been 
a  strained  relation  between  him  and  Barry.  The 
boy  had  felt  himself  misunderstood.  Gordon  had 
sat  in  judgment  Constance  had  tearfully  agreed 
with  Gordon,  and  Mary,  torn  between  her  sense  of 
Gordon's  rightness,  and  her  own  championship  of 
Barry,  had  been  strung  to  the  point  of  breaking. 

She  turned  from  the  window,  and  went  up-stairs 

183 


CONTRART  MART 

slcwly.  In  the  Sanctum,  Constance  and  Aunt 
Isabella  were  sewing.  At  last  Aunt  Isabelle  had 
come  into  her  own.  She  spent  her  days  in  putting 
fine  stitches  into  infinitesimal  garments.  There  was 
about  her  constantly  the  perfume  of  the  sachet 
powder  with  which  she  was  scenting  the  fine  lawn 
and  lace  which  glorified  certain  baskets  and  bas- 
sinets. When  she  was  not  sewing  she  was  knitting 
— little  silken  socks  for  a  Cupid's  foot,  little  warm 
caps,  doll's  size ;  puffy  wool  blankets  on  big  wooden 
needles. 

The  Sanctum  had  taken  on  the  aspect  of  a  bower. 
Here  Constance  sat  enthroned — and  in  her  gentle- 
ness reminded  Mary  more  and  more  of  her  mother. 
Here  was  always  the  sweetness  of  the  flowers  with 
which  Gordon  kept  his  wife  supplied  ;  here,  too,  was 
an  atmosphere  of  serene  waiting  for  a  supreme 
event. 

Mary,  entering  with  Pittiwitz  in  her  arms,  tried  to 
cast  away  her  worries  on  the  threshold.  She  must 
not  be  out  of  tune  with  this  symphony.  She  smiled 
and  sat  down  beside  Constance.  "  Such  lovely  little 
things,"  she  said  ;  "  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

It  seemed  that  there  was  a  debate  on,  relative  to 
the  suitability  of  embroidery  as  against  fine  tucks. 

Mary  settled  it.  "  Let  me  have  it,"  she  said  ;  "  I'll 
put  in  a  few  tucks  and  a  little  embroidery — I  shall 
be  glad  to  have  my  fingers  busy." 

"You're  always  so  occupied  with  other  things," 

184 


SIXES  AND  SEVENS 

Constance    complained,   gently.    "J.  don't  see  half 
enough  of  you." 

"  You  have  Gordon,"  Mary  remarked. 

"  You  say  that  as  if  it  really  made  a  difference." 

"  It     does,"     Mary   murmured.     Then,    lest    sne 
trouble  Constance's  gentle  soul,  she  added  bravely, 
'  But  Gordon's  a  dear.     And  you're  a  lucky  girl." 

"  I  know  I  am."  Constance  was  complacent. 
**  And  I  knew  you'd  recognize  it,  when  you'd  seen 
more  of  Gordon." 

Mary  felt  a  rising  sense  of  rebellion.  She  was 
not  in  a  mood  to  hear  a  catalogue  of  Gordon's 
virtues.  But  she  smiled,  bravely.  "  I'll  admit  that 
he  is  perfect,"  she  said  ;  "  we  won't  quarrel  over  it. 
Con,  dear." 

But  to  herself  she  was  saying,  "Oh,  I  should  hate 
to  marry  a  perfect  man." 

All  the  morning  she  sat  there,  her  needle  busy, 
and  gradually  she  was  soothed  by  the  peace  of  the 
pleasant  room.  The  world  seemed  brighter,  her 
problems  receded. 

Just  before  luncheon  was  announced  came  Aunt 
Frances  and  Grace. 

They  brought  gifts,  wonderful  little  things,  made 
by  the  nuns  of  France — sheer,  exquisite,  tied  with 
pale  ribbons. 

"  We  are  going  from  here  to  Leila's,"  Aunt 
Frances  informed  them  ;  "  we  ordered  some  lovely 
trousseau  clothes  and  they  came  with  these." 

i8«i 


CONTRART  MART 

Trousseau  clothes?  Leila's?  Mary's  needle 
pricked  the  air  for  a  moment. 

"  They  haven't  set  the  day,  you  know,  Aunt 
Frances  ;  it  will  be  a  long  engagement." 

"  I  don't  believe  in  long  engagements,"  Aunt 
Frances'  tone  was  final ;  "  they  are  not  wise. 
Barry  ought  to  settle  down." 

Nobody  answered.  There  was  nothing  to  say,  but 
Mary  was  oppressed  by  the  grim  humor  of  it  all.  Here 
was  Aunt  Frances  bearing  garments  for  the  bride, 
while  Gordon  was  planning  to  steal  the  bridegroom. 

She  stood  up.  "  You  better  stay  to  lunch,"  she 
said  ;  "  it  is  Susan  Jenks'  hot  roll  day,  and  you  know 
her  rolls." 

Aunt  Frances  peeled  off  her  long  gloves.  "  I 
hoped  you'd  ask  us,  we  are  so  tired  of  hotel  fare." 

Grace  laughed.  "  Mother  is  of  old  New  York," 
she  said,  "  and  better  for  her  are  hot  rolls  and  chops 
from  her  own  kitchen  range,  than  caviar  and  truffles 
from  the  hands  of  a  hotel  chef — in  spite  of  all  of  our 
globe  trotting,  she  hasn't  caught  the  habit  of  meals 
with  the  mob." 

Grace  went  down  with  Mary,  and  the  two  girls 
found  Susan  Jenks  with  the  rolls  all  puffy  and  perfect 
in  their  pans. 

"  There's  plenty  of  them,"  she  said  to  Mary,  "  an' 
if  the  croquettes  give  out,  you  can  fill  up  on  rolls." 

"Susan,"  Grace  said,  "when  Mary  gets  married 
will  you  come  and  keep  house  for  me?  " 

i86 


SIXES  AND  SEVENS 

Susan  smiled.  "  Miss  Mary  ain't  goin'  to  git 
married." 

"Why  not?" 

"  She  ain't  that  kind.  She's  the  kind  that  looks 
at  a  man  and  studies  about  him,  and  then  she  waves 
him  away  and  holds  up  her  head,  and  says,  *  I'm 
sorry,  but  you  won't  do.'  ' 

The  two  girls  laughed.  **  How  did  you  get  that 
idea  of  me,  Susan  ?  "  Mary  asked. 

"  By  studyin'  you,"  said  Susan.  "  I  ain't  known 
you  all  your  life  for  nothin'. 

"  Now  Miss  Constance,"  she  went  on,  as  she 
opened  the  oven  and  peeped  in,  "  Miss  Constance  is 
just  the  other  way.  'Most  any  nice  man  was  bound 
to  git  her.  An'  it  was  lucky  that  Mr.  Gordon  was 
the  first." 

"  And  what  about  me?"  was  Grace's  demand. 

"  Go  'way,"  said  Susan,  "  you  knows  yo'se'f.  Miss 
Grace.  You  bats  your  eyes  at  everybody,  and  gives 
your  heart  to  nobody." 

"  And  so  Mary  and  I  are  to  be  old  maids^-oh, 
Susan." 

"  They  don't  call  them  old  maids  any  more," 
Susan  said,  "  and  they  ain't  old  maids,  not  in  the 
way  they  once  was  An  old  maid  is  a  woman  who 
ain't  got  any  intrus'  in  life  but  the  man  she  can't 
have,  and  you  all  is  the  kin'  that  ain't  got  no  intrus' 
in  the  men  that  want  you." 

They  left  her,  laughing,  and  when  they  reached 

187 


CONTRART  MART 

the  dining-room  they  sat  down  on  the  window-seat 
where  Mary  had  gazed  out  upon  the  dead  garden 
and  the  bronze  boy. 

"  And  now,"  said  Grace,  "  tell  me  about  Roger 
Poole." 

"  There  isn't  much  to  tell.  He's  given  up  his 
position  in  the  Treasury,  and  he's  gone  down  to  his 
cousin's  home  for  a  while.  He's  going  to  try  to 
write  for  the  magazines  ;  he  thinks  that  stories  of 
that  section  will  take." 

"  He's  in  love  with  you,  Mary.  But  you're  not  in 
love  with  him — ^and  you  mustn't  be." 

"  Of  course  not.     I'm  not  going  to  marry,  Grace." 

Grace  gave  her  a  little  squeeze.  "  You  don't  know 
what  you  are  going  to  do,  darling ;  no  woman  does. 
But  I  don't  want  you  to  fall  in  love  with  anybody 
yet.  Flit  through  life  with  me  for  a  time.  I'll  take 
you  to  Paris  next  summer,  and  show  you  my  world." 

"  I  couldn't,  unless  I  could  pay  my  own  way." 

"  Oh,  Mary,  what  makes  you  fight  against  any- 
body doing  anything  for  you  ?  " 

"  Porter  says  it  is  my  contrariness — but  I  just  can't 
hold  out  my  hands  and  let  things  drop  into  them." 

"  I  know — and  that's  why  you  won't  marry  Porter 
Bigelow." 

Mary  flashed  at  her  a  surprised  and  grateful 
glance.  "  Grace,"  she  said,  solemnly,  "  you're  the 
first  person  who  has  seemed  to  understand." 

"And  I  understand,"  said  Grace,  "because  to  me 

t88 


SIXES  AND  SEVENS 

life  is  a  Great  Adventure.  Everything  that  happens 
is  a  hazard  on  the  highway — as  yet  I  haven't  found 
a  man  who  will  travel  the  road  with  me  ;  they  all 
want  to  open  a  gate  and  shut  me  in  and  say,  '  Stay 
here.'  " 

Mary's  eyes  were  shining.     "  I  feel  that,  too." 

Grace  kissed  her.  "  You'd  laugh,  Mary,  if  I  told 
the  dream  which  is  at  the  end  of  my  journey." 

"  I  sha'n't  laugh— tell  me." 

There  was  a  rich  color  in  Grace's  cheeks.  In  her 
modish  frock  of  the  black  which  she  affected,  and 
which  was  this  morning  of  fine  serge  set  off  by  a 
line  of  fur  at  hem  and  wrist,  and  topped  by  a  little 
hat  of  black  velvet  which  framed  the  vividness  of  her 
glorious  hair,  she  looked  the  woman  of  the  world,  so 
that  her  words  gained  strength  by  force  of  contrast 

"  Nobody  would  believe  it,"  she  prefaced,  '*  but, 
Mary  Ballard,  some  day  when  I'm  tired  of  dancing 
through  life,  when  I  am  weary  of  the  adventures  on 
the  road,  I'm  going  to  build  a  home  for  little  chil- 
dren, and  spend  my  days  with  them." 

So  the  two  girls  dreamed  dreams  and  saw  visions 
of  the  future.  They  sang  and  soared,  they  kissed 
and  confided. 

"  Whatever  comes,  life  shall  never  be  common- 
place," Mary  declared,  and  as  the  bell  rang  and  she 
went  to  the  table,  she  felt  that  now  nothing  could 
daunt  her — the  hard  things  would  be  merely  a  part 
of  a  glorious  pilgrimage. 

189 


CONTRART  MART 

Susan's  hot  rolls  were  pronounced  perfect,  and 
Susan,  serenely  conscious  of  it,  banished  the  second 
maid  to  the  kitchen  and  waited  on  the  table  herself. 

Here  were  five  women  of  one  clan.  She  under- 
stood them  all,  she  loved  them  all.  She  gave  even 
to  Aunt  Frances  her  due.  "  They  all  holds  their 
heads  high,"  she  had  confided  on  one  occasion  to 
Roger  Poole,  "  and  Miss  Frances  holds  hers  so  high 
that  she  almost  bends  back,  but  she  knows  how  to 
treat  the  people  who  work  for  her,  and  she's  always 
been  mighty  good  to  me." 

Mary's  mood  of  exaltation  lasted  long  after  her 
guests  had  departed.  She  found  herself  singing  as 
she  climbed  the  stairs  that  night  to  her  room.  And 
it  was  with  this  mood  still  upon  her  that  she  wrote 
to  Roger  Poole. 

Her  letter,  penned  on  the  full  tide  of  her  new  emo- 
tion, was  like  wine  to  his  thirsty  soul.  It  began  and 
ended  formally,  but  every  line  throbbed  with  hope 
and  courage,  and  responding  to  the  note  which  she 
had  struck,  he  wrote  back  to  her. 


199 


CHAPTER  XIV 

In  Which  Mary  Writes  From  the  Tower  Rootm ; 
and  in  Which  Roger  Answers  From  Among  the 
F^nes. 

The  Tower  Rooms. 

DEAR  MR.  POOLE: 
I  have  taken  your  rooms  for  mine,  and  this 
is  my  first  evening  in  them.  Pittiwitz  is  curled  up 
under  the  lamp.  She  misses  you  and  so  do  I.  Even 
aow,  it  seems  as  if  your  books  ought  to  be  on  the 
table ;  and  that  I  ought  to  be  talking  to  you  instead 
of  writing. 

I  liked  your  letter.  It  seemed  to  tell  me  that  you 
were  hopeful  and  at  home.  You  must  tell  me  about 
the  house  and  your  Cousin  Patty — about  everything 
in  your  life — and  you  must  send  me  your  first  story. 

Here  everything  is  the  same.  Constance  will  be 
with  me  until  spring,  and  we  are  to  have  a  quiet 
Thanksgiving  and  a  quiet  Christmas  with  just  the 
family,  and  Leila  and  the  General.  Porter  Bigelow 
goes  to  Palm  Beach  to  be  with  his  mother.  I  don't 
know  why  we  always  count  him  in  as  one  of  the 
family  except  that  he  never  waits  for  an  invitation, 
and  of  course   we're   glad  to   have   him.     Mothei 

191 


CONTRART  MART 

and  father  used  to  feel  sorry  for  him ;  he  was  always 
a  sort  of  "  Poor-litde-rich-boy "  whose  money  cut 
him  out  from  lots  of  good  times  that  families  have 
who  don't  live  in  such  formal  fashion  as  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bigelow  seem  to  enjoy. 

As  soon  as  "Constance  leaves,  I  am  going  to  work. 
I  haven't  told  any  one,  for  when  I  hinted  at  it,  Con- 
stance was  terribly  upset,  and  asked  me  to  live  with 
her  and  Gordon.  Grace  wants  me  to  go  to  Paris 
with  her;  Barry  and  Leila  have  stated  that  \  can 
have  a  home  with  them. 

But  I  don't  want  a  home  with  anybody.  I  want 
to  live  my  own  life,  as  I  have  told  you.  I  want  to  try 
my  wings.  I  don't  believe  you  quite  like  the  idea  of 
my  working.  Nobody  does,  not  even  Grace  Clen- 
denning,  although  Grace  seems  to  understand  me 
better  than  any  one  else. 

Grace  and  I  have  been  talking  to-day  about  life  as 
a  great  adventure.  And  it  seems  to  me  that  we  have 
the  right  idea.  So  many  people  go  through  life  as 
just  something  to  be  endured,  but  I  want  to  make 
things  happen,  or  rather,  if  big  things  don't  happ)en,  I 
want  to  see  in  the  little  things  something  that  is  inter- 
esting. I  don't  believe  that  any  life  need  be  common- 
place. It  is  just  the  way  we  look  at  it.  I'm  copying 
these  words  which  I  read  in  one  of  your  books  ;  per- 
haps you've  seen  them,  but  anyhow  it  will  tell  you 
better  than  I  what  I  mean. 

"  But  life  is  a  great  adventure,  and  the  worst  of  all 
192 


FROM  AMONG  THE  PINES 

fears  is  the  fear  of  living.  There  are  many  forms  of 
success,  many  forms  of  triumph.  But  there  is  no 
other  success  that  in  any  way  approaches  that  which 
is  open  to  most  of  the  many  men  and  women  who  have 
the  right  idea.  These  are  the  men  and  the  women 
who  see  that  it  is  the  intimate  and  homely  things 
that  count  most.  They  are  the  men  and  women  who 
have  the  courage  to  strive  for  the  happiness  which 
comes  only  with  labor  and  effort  and  self-sacrifice, 
and  only  to  those  whose  joy  in  life  springs  in  pait 
from  power  of  work  and  sense  of  duty." 

Aren't  those  words  like  a  strong  wind  blowing 
from  the  sea  ?  I  just  love  them.  And  I  know  you 
will.  I  am  so  glad  that  I  can  talk  to  you  of  such 
things.  Everybody  has  to  have  a  friend  who  cac 
understand — and  that's  the  fine  thing  about  oui 
friendship — that  we  both  have  things  to  overcome, 
and  that  our  letters  can  be  reports  of  progress. 

Of  course  the  things  which  I  have  to  overcome 
are  just  litde  fussy  woman  things — but  they  are  big 
to  me  because  I  am  breaking  away  from  family  tra- 
ditions. All  the  women  of  our  household  have  fol- 
lowed the  straight  and  narrow  path  of  conventional 
living.  Even  Grace  does  it,  although  she  rebels  in- 
wardly— but  Aunt  Frances  keeps  her  to  it.  Once 
Grace  tried  to  be  an  artist,  and  she  worked  hard  in 
Paris,  until  Aunt  Frances  swooped  down  and  carried 
her  off — Grace  still  speaks  of  that  time  in  Paris  as 
hei  year  out  of  prison.     You  see  she  worked  hard 

193 


CONTRART  MART 

and  met  people  who  worked,  too,  and  it  interested 
her.  She  had  a  studio  apartment,  and  was  properly 
chaperoned  by  a  little  widow  who  went  with  her  and 
shared  her  rooms^ 

But  Aunt  Frances  popped  in  on  them  suddenly 
one  day  and  found  a  Bohemian  party.  There  wasn't 
anything  wrong  about  it,  Grace  says,  but  you  know 
Aunt  Frances  1  She  has  never  ceased  to  talk  about 
the  frumpy  crowd  she  met  there.  She  hated  the 
students  in  their  velvet  coats  and  the  women  with 
their  poor  queer  clothes.  And  Grace  loved  them. 
But  she's  given  up  the  idea  of  ever  living  there  again. 
She  says  you  can't  do  a  thing  twice  and  have  it  the 
same.  I  don't  know.  I  only  know  that  Grace  may 
seem  frivolous  on  the  outside,  but  that  underneath 
she  is  different.  She  has  taken  up  advanced  ideas 
about  women,  and  she  says  that  I  have  them  natu- 
rally, and  that  she  didn't  expect  such  a  thing  in 
Washington  where  everybody  stops  to  think  what 
somebody  else  is  going  to  say.  But  I  haven't  ar- 
rived at  the  point  where  I  am  really  interested  in  Suf- 
frage and  things  like  that.  Grace  says  that  I  must 
begin  to  look  beyond  my  own  life,  and  perhaps  ^^hen 
I  get  some  of  my  own  problems  settled,  I  will.  Anr* 
then  I  shall  be  taking  up  the  problems  of  the  girls 
in  factories  and  the  girls  in  laundries  and  the  girls 
in  the  big  shops,  as  Grace  is.  She  says  that  she 
may  live  like  a  bond-slave  herself,  but  she'd  like  tc 
help  other  women  to  be  free. 

194 


FROM  AMONG  THE  PINES 

And  now  I  must  tell  you  about  Delilah  Jeliffe. 
She  had  a  house-warming  last  week.  The  old  house 
in  Georgetown  is  a  dream.  Delilah  hasn't  a  super- 
fluous or  gorgeous  thing  in  it.  Everything  is  keyed 
to  the  old-family  note.  Some  of  the  things  are  even 
shabby.  She  has  done  away  with  flamingo  colors, 
and  her  monkeys  with  the  crystal  ball  and  the  pea- 
cock screen.  She  has  little  stools  in  her  drawing- 
room  with  faded  covers  of  canvas  work,  and  she  has 
samplers  and  cracked  portraits,  and  the  china  doesn't 
all  match.  There  isn't  a  sign  of  "  new  richness  "  in 
the  place  She  keeps  colored  servants,  and  doesn't 
wear  rings,  and  her  gowns  are  frilly  flowing  white 
things  which  make  her  look  like  one  of  those  de- 
mure grandmotherly  young  persons  of  the  early 
sixties. 

Her  little  artist  is  a  charming  blond  who  doesn't 
come  up  to  her  shoulders,  and  Delilah  hangs  on 
every  word  he  says.  For  the  moment  he  obscures 
all  the  other  men  on  her  horizon.  He  made  sketches 
of  the  way  every  room  in  her  house  ought  to  look. 
And  what  seems  to  be  the  result  of  years  of  formal 
pleasant  living  really  is  the  result  of  the  months  of 
hunting  and  hard  work  which  he  and  Delilah  have  put 
in.  He  even  indicates  the  flowers  she  shall  wear,  and 
those  which  are  to  bloom  next  summer  in  her  garden. 
She  affects  heliotrope,  and  on  the  night  of  her  house- 
warming  she  carried  a  tight  bunch  of  it  with  a  few 
pink  rosebuds. 

195 


CONTRART  MART 

Really,  in  her  new  rdle  Delilah  is  superb.  And 
people  are  beginning  to  notice  her  and  to  call  on 
her.  Even  in  this  short  time  she  has  been  invited  to 
Bome  very  good  houses.  She  has  a  new  way  with 
her  eyes,  and  drops  her  lashes  over  them,  and  is  very 
still  and  lovely. 

Do  you  remember  her  leopard  skins  of  last  year  ? 
Well,  now  she  wears  moleskins — a  queer  dolman- 
shaped  wrap  of  them,  and  a  little  hat  with  a  dull 
blue  feather,  and  she  drapes  a  black  lace  veil  over 
the  hat  and  looks  like  a  duchess. 

Grace  Clendenning  says  that  Delilah  and  her 
artist  will  achieve  a  triumph  if  they  keep  on.  They 
aren't  trying  to  storm  society,  they  are  trying  to  woo 
it,  and  out  of  it  the  artist  gets  the  patronage  of  the 
people  whom  he  meets  through  Delilah.  Perhaps  it 
will  end  by  Delilah's  marrying  him.  But  Grace  says 
not.  She  says  that  Delilah  simply  squeezes  people 
dry,  like  so  many  oranges,  and  when  she  has  what 
she  wants,  she  throws  them  aside. 

Yet  Grace  and  Delilah  get  along  very  well  to- 
gether. Grace  has  always  made  a  study  of  clothes, 
because  it  is  the  only  way  in  which  she  can  find  an 
outlet  for  her  artistic  tastes.  And  she  is  interested 
in  Delilah's  methods.  She  says  that  they  are 
masterly. 

But  I  am  forgetting  to  tell  you  what  Delilah  said 
of  you.  It  was  on  the  night  of  her  house-warming. 
She  asked  about  you,  and  when  I  said  that  you  had 

196 


FROM  AMONG  THE  PINES 

gone  south  to  get  atmosphere  for  some  stories  you 
were  writing,  she  said  : 

*'  Do  you  know  it  came  to  me  yesterday,  while  I 
was  in  church,  where  I  had  seen  him.  It  was  the 
same  text,  and  that  was  what  brought  it  back.  He 
was  preackifig,  my  dear.  I  remember  that  I  sat  in 
the  front  pew  and  looked  up  at  him,  and  thought 
that  I  had  never  heard  such  a  voice ;  and  now,  tell 
me  why  he  has  given  it  up,  and  why  he  is  burying 
himself  in  the  South?" 

At  first  I  didn't  know  just  what  to  say,  and  then  I 
thought  it  best  to  tell  the  truth.  So  I  looked  straight 
at  her,  and  said  ;  **  He  made  a  most  unhappy  mar- 
riage, and  gave  up  his  life-work.  But  now  his  wife 
is  dead,  and  some  day  he  may  preach  again."  Was 
it  wrong  for  me  to  say  that  ?  I  do  hope  you  are 
going  to  preach  ;  somehow  I  feel  that  you  will.  And 
anyhow  while  people  need  never  know  the  details  of 
your  story,  they  will  have  to  know  the  outlines.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  easiest  way  was  to  tell  it  and 
have  it  over. 

Of  course  Gordon  has  asked  some  questions,  and 
I  have  told  what  I  thought  should  be  told.  I  hope 
that  you  won't  feel  that  I  have  been  unwise.  I 
thought  it  best  to  start  straight,  and  then  there 
would  be  nothing  to  hide. 

And  now  may  I  tell  you  a  little  bit  about  Barry  ? 
They  want  him  to  go  away — back  to  England  with 
Gordon  and  Constance.     You  see  Gordon  looks  at 

197 


CONTRART  MART 

it  without  sentiment.  Gordon's  sentiment  stops  at 
Constance.  He  thinks  that  Barry  should  simply 
give  Leila  up,  go  away,  and  not  come  back  until  he 
can  show  a  clear  record. 

Of  course  I  know  that  Gordon  is  right  But  I 
can't  bear  it — that's  why  I  haven't  been  able  to  face 
things  with  quite  the  courage  that  I  thought  I  could. 
But  since  my  talk  with  Grace,  I  am  going  to  look  at 
it  differently.  I  shall  try  to  feel  that  Barry's  going  is 
best^  and  that  he  must  ride  away  gallantly,  and  come 
back  with  trumpets  blowing  and  flags  flying. 

And  that's  the  way  you  must  some  day  come  into 
your  own. — I  like  to  think  about  it.  I  like  to  think 
about  victory  and  conquest,  instead  of  defeat  and 
failure.  Somehow  thinking  about  a  thing  seems  to 
bring  it,  don't  you  think  ? 

Oh,  but  this  is  such  a  long  letter,  and  it  is  gossipy, 
and  scrappy.  But  that's  the  way  we  used  to  talk, 
and  you  seemed  to  like  it. 

And  now  I'll  say  "  Good-night."  Pittiwitz  waked 
up  a  moment  ago,  and  walked  across  this  sheet, 
and  the  blot  is  where  she  stepped  on  a  word.  So 
that's  her  message.  But  my  message  is  Psalms 
27  :  14.  You  can  look  it  up  in  father's  Bible — I  am 
so  glad  you  took  it  with  you.  But  perhaps  you 
don't  have  to  look  up  verses ;  you  probably  know 
everything  by  heart.     Do  you  ? 

Sincerely  ever, 

Mary  Ballard. 
198 


FROM  AMONG  THE  PINES 

Among  the  Pines^ 
My  Good  Little  Friend  : 

I  am  not  going  to  try  to  tell  you  what  your 
letter  meant  to  me.  It  was  the  bluebird's  song  in 
the  spring,  the  cool  breeze  in  the  desert,  sunlight 
after  storm — it  was  everything  that  stands  for  satis- 
faction after  a  season  of  discomfort  or  of  discontent. 

Yet,  except  that  I  miss  the  Tower  Rooms,  and 
miss,  too,  the  great  happiness  I  found  in  pursuing 
our  friendship  at  close  range,  I  should  have  no  rea- 
son here  either  for  discomfort  or  lack  of  content — if  I 
feel  the  world  somewhat  barren,  it  is  not  because  of 
what  I  have  found,  but  because  of  what  I  have 
brought  with  me. 

I  like  to  think  of  you  in  the  Tower  Rooms.  You 
always  belonged  there,  and  I  felt  like  a  usurper  when 
I  came  and  discovered  that  all  of  your  rosy  belongings 
had  been  moved  down-stairs  and  my  staid  and  stiff 
things  were  in  their  place.  It  is  queer,  isn't  it,  the 
difference  in  the  atmosphere  made  by  a  man  and  by 
a  Jvoman.  A  man  dares  not  surround  himself  with 
pale  and  pretty  colors  and  delicate  and  dainty  things, 
lest  he  be  called  effeminate — perhaps  that's  why  men 
take  women  into  their  lives,  so  that  they  may  have 
the  things  which  they  crave  without  having  their 
masculinity  questioned. 

Yet  the  atmosphere  which  seems  to  fit  you  best  is 
not  merely  one  of  rosiness  and  prettiness  ;  it  is  rather 
that  of  sunshine  and  out-of-doors.     When  you  talk 

199 


CONTRART  MART 

or  write  to  me  I  have  the  sensation  of  being  swept 
on  and  on  by  your  enthusiasms — I  seem  to  fly  on 
strong  wings — the  quotatiop.  which  you  gave  is  the 
utterance  ot  some  one  else,  but  you  unerringly  se- 
lected, and  passed  it  on  to  me,  and  so  in  a  sense 
made  it  your  own.  I  am  going  to  copy  it  and  il- 
lumine it,  and  keep  it  where  I  can  see  it  at  all  times. 

I  find  that  I  do  not  travel  as  fast  as  you  toward 
my  future.  I  have  shut  myself  up  for  many  years. 
I  have  been  so  sure  that  all  the  wine  of  life  was 
spilled,  that  the  path  ahead  of  me  was  dreary,  that  I 
cannot  see  myself  at  all  with  trumpets  blowing,  with 
flags  flying  and  the  rest  of  it.  Perhaps  I  shall  some 
day — and  at  least  I  shall  try,  and  in  the  trying  there 
will  be  something  gained.  Some  day,  perhaps,  I 
shall  reach  the  upper  air  where  you  soar — perhaps 
I  shall  "  mount  as  an  eagle." 

Your  message !     Dear  child — do  you  know 

how  sweet  you  are  ?  I  don't  know  all  the  verses — 
but  that  one  I  do  know.  Yet  I  had  let  myself  forget, 
and  you  brought  it  back  to  me  with  all  its  strong 
assurance. 

Your  decision  that  it  was  best  to  tell  what  there  is 
to  tell,  to  let  nothing  be  hidden,  is  one  which  I  should 
have  made  long  ago.  Only  of  late  have  I  realized 
that  concealment  brings  in  its  train  a  thousand 
horrors.  One  lives  in  fear,  dreading  that  which 
must  inevitably  come.  Yet  I  do  not  think  I  must 
be  blamed  too  much.     I  was  beaten  and  bruised  by 

POO 


FROM  AMONG  THE  PINES 

the  knowledge  of  my  overthrow.  I  only  wanted  ta 
crawl  into  a  hole  and  be  forgotten. 

Even  now,  I  find  myself  unfolding  slowly.  I  have 
lived  so  long  in  the  dark,  and  the  light  seems  to 
blind  my  eyes  ! 

It  is  strange  that  I  should  have  remembered 
Delilah  Jeliffe,  but  not  strange  that  she  should  have 
remembered  me  ;  for  I  stood  alone  in  the  pulpit,  but 
she  was  one  of  a  crowd.  Since  your  letter,  I  have 
been  thinking  back,  and  I  can  see  her  as  she  sat 
reading  in  the  front  pew,  big  and  rather  fine  with 
her  black  hair  and  her  bold  eyes.  I  think  that  perhaps 
the  thing  which  made  me  remember  her  was  the 
fleeting  thought  that  her  type  stood  usually  for  the 
material  in  woman,  and  I  wondered  if  in  her  case 
outward  appearances  were  as  deceptive  as  they  were 
in  my  wife — with  her  saint's  eyes,  and  her  distorted 
moral  vision.  Perhaps  I  was  intuitively  right,  and 
that  beneath  Delilah  Jeliffe's  exterior  there  is  a 
certain  fineness,  and  that  these  funny  fads  of  dress 
and  decorations  are  merely  in  some  way  her  striving 
toward  the  expression  of  her  real  self. 

What  you  tell  me  of  your  talk  with  your  cousin 
Grace  interests  me  very  much.  I  fancy  she  is  more 
womanly  than  she  is  willing  to  admit.  Yet  she 
should  marry.  Every  woman  should  marry,  except 
you — who  are  going  to  be  my  friend  1  There  peeps 
out  my  selfishness — but  I  shall  let  it  stand. 

No,   I  don't  like  the  idea  that  you  must  work.     I 

20I 


CONTRART  MART 

don't  want  you  to  try  your  wings.  I  want  you  to 
sit  safe  in  your  nest  in  the  top  of  the  Tower,  and 
write  letters  to  me  I 

Labor,  office  drudgery,  are  things  which  sap  the 
color  from  a  woman's  cheeks,  and  strength  from  her 
body.  She  grows  into  a  machine,  and  you  are  a 
bird,  to  fly  and  light  on  the  nearest  branch  and 
sing! 

But  now  you  will  want  to  know  something  of  my 
life,  and  of  the  house  and  of  Cousin  Patty. 

The  house  has  suffered  from  the  years  of  poverty 
since  the  War.  Yet  it  has  still  about  it  something 
of  the  dignity  of  an  ancient  ruin.  It  is  a  big  frame 
structure  with  the  Colonial  pillars  which  belong  to 
the  period  of  its  building.  Many  of  the  rooms  are 
closed.  My  own  suite  is  on  the  second  floor — Cousin 
Patty's  opposite,  and  adjoining  her  rooms  those  of 
an  old  aunt  who  is  a  pensioner. 

There  is  little  of  the  old  mahogany  which  once 
made  the  rooms  stately,  and  little  of  the  old  silver  to 
grace  the  table.  Cousin  Patty's  poverty  is  combined, 
nappily,  with  common  sense.  She  has  known  the 
full  value  of  her  antiques,  and  has  preferred  good 
food  to  family  traditions.  Yet  there  are  the  old 
portraits  and  in  her  living-room  a  few  choice  pieces. 
Here  we  have  an  open  fire,  and  here  we  sit  o'  nights. 

Cousin  Patty  is  small,  rather  white  and  thin,  and  she 
is  fifty- five.  I  tell  you  her  age,  because  in  a  way  it 
explains  many  things  which  would  otherwise  puzzle 

202 


FROM  AMONG  THE  PINES 

you.  She  was  born  just  before  the  war.  She  knew 
nothing  of  the  luxury  of  the  days  of  slavery.  She 
has  twisted  and  turned  and  economized  all  of  her 
life.  She  has  struggled  with  all  the  problems  which 
beset  the  South  in  Reconstruction  times,  and  she  has 
come  out  if  it  all,  sweet  and  shrewd,  and  with  a  point 
of  view  about  women  which  astonishes  me,  and 
which  gives  us  achance  for  many  sprightly  arguments. 
Her  black  hair  is  untouched  with  gray,  she  wears  it 
parted  and  in  a  thick  knot  high  on  her  head.  Her 
gowns  are  invariably  of  black  silk,  well  cut  and  well 
made.  She  makes  them  herself,  and  gets  her  patterns 
from  New  York  I     Can  you  see  her  now  ? 

Our  arguments  are  usually  about  women,  and 
their  position  in  the  world  to-day.  You  know  I  am 
conservative,  clinging  much  to  old  ideals,  old  fashions, 
to  the  beliefs  of  gentler  times — but  Cousin  Patty  in 
this  backwater  of  civilization  has  gone  far  ahead  of 
me.  She  believes  that  the  hope  of  the  South  is  in  its 
women.  "  They  read  more  than  the  men,"  she  says, 
"  and  they  have  responded  more  quickly  to  the  new 
social  ideals." 

But  of  our  arguments  more  in  another  letter — this 
will  serve,  however,  to  introduce  you  to  some  of  the 
astonishing  mental  processes  of  this  little  marooned 
cousin  of  mine. 

For  in  a  sense  she  is  marooned.  Once  upon  a 
time  when  Cotton  was  king,  and  slave  labor  made 
all  things  possible,  there  was  prosperity  here,   but 

203 


CONTRART  MART 

now  the  land  is  impoverished.  So  Cousin  Patty 
does  not  depend  upon  the  land.  She  read  in  some 
of  her  magazines  of  a  woman  who  had  made  a 
fortune  in  wedding  cake.  She  resolved  that  what 
one  woman  could  do  could  be  done  by  another. 
Hence  she  makes  and  sells  wedding  cake,  and  while 
she  has  not  made  a  fortune  she  has  made  a  living. 
She  began  by  asking  friends  for  orders  ;  she  now  gets 
orders  from  near  and  far. 

So  all  day  there  is  the  good  smell  of  baking  in  the 
house,  and  the  sound  of  the  whisking  of  eggs.  And 
every  day  litde  boxes  have  to  be  filled.  Will  you 
smile  when  I  tell  you  that  I  like  the  filling  of  the 
little  boxes  ?  And  that  while  we  talk  o'  nights,  I  busy 
myself  with  this  task,  while  Cousin  Patty  does  things 
with  narrow  white  ribbon  and  bits  of  artificial  orange 
blossoms,  so  that  the  packages  which  go  out  may  be 
as  beautiful  and  bride-y  as  possible. 

It  is  strange,  when  one  thinks  of  it,  that  I  came  to 
your  house  on  a  wedding  night,  and  here  I  live  in  a 
perpetual  atmosphere  of  wedding  blisses. 

In  the  morning  I  write.  In  the  afternoon  I  do  other 
things.  The  weather  is  not  cold — it  is  dry  and  sunshiny 
— windless.  I  take  long  walks  over  the  hills  and  far 
away.  Some  of  it  is  desolate  country  where  the  boxed 
pines  have  fallen,  or  where  an  area  has  been  burned, 
but  one  comes  now  and  then  upon  groves  of  shim 
mering  and  shining  young  trees, — is  there  any  tree  as 
beautiful  as  a  young  pine  with  the  sunshine  on  it? 

204 


FROM  AMONG  THE  PINES 

It  is  rare  to  find  a  grove  of  old  pines,  yet  there 
a)-e  one  or  two  estates  where  for  years  no  trees  have 
b-en  cut  or  burned,  and  beneath  these  tall  old  sing- 
ing monarchs  I  sit  on  the  brown  needles,  and  write 
and  write — to  what  end  I  know  not. 

I  have  not  one  finished  story  to  show  you,  though 
the  beginnings  of  many.  The  pen  is  not  my 
medium.  My  thoughts  seem  to  dry  up  when  I  try 
to  put  them  on  paper.  It  is  when  I  talk  that  I  grow 
most  eloquent.  Oh,  little  friend,  shall  I  ever  make 
the  world  listen  again  ? 

I  am  going  to  tell  you  presently  of  those  who  have 
listened,  down  here — such  an  audience — and  in  such 
an  amphitheater  ! 

My  walks  take  me  far  afield.  The  roads  are 
sandy,  and  I  do  not  always  follow  them,  preferring, 
rather,  the  dunes  which  remind  me  so  much  of  those 
by  the  sea.  Once  upon  a  time  this  ground  was  the 
ocean's  bed — I  have  the  feeling  always  that  just 
beyond  the  low  hills  I  shall  glimpse  the  blue. 

Now  and  then  I  meet  some  darkey  of  the  old 
school  with  his  cheery  greeting  ;  now  and  then  on 
the  highroad  a  schooner  wagon  sails  by.  These 
wagons  give  one  the  queer  feeling  of  being  set  back 
to  pioneer  days, — do  you  remember  the  Pike's  Peak 
picture  at  the  Capitol  with  all  the  eager  faces  turned 
toward  the  setting  sun  ? 

Now  and  then  I  run  across  a  hunting  party  from 
one  of  the  big  hotels  which  are  getting  to  be  plenti- 

205 


CONTRART  MARY 

ful  in  this  healthy  region ;  but  these  people  with  theii 
sporting  clothes  and  their  sophistication  always  seem 
out  of  place  among  the  pines. 

And  now,  since  you  have  written  to  me  of  life  as 
a  journey  on  the  highroad,  I  will  tell  you  of  my  first 
adventure. 

There's  a  schooner-man  who  comes  from  the  sand- 
hills on  his  way  to  the  nearest  resort  with  his  chickens 
and  eggs.  It  is  a  three  days'  journey,  and  he  camps 
out  at  night,  sleeping  in  his  wagon,  building  his  fire 
in  the  open. 

One  day  he  passed  me  as  I  sat  tired  by  the  way- 
side, and  offered  to  give  me  a  lift  toward  home. 
I  accepted,  and  rode  beside  him.  And  thus  began 
an  acquaintance  which  interests  me,  and  evidently 
pleases  him. 

He  is  tall  and  loosely  put  together,  this  knight  of 
the  Sandy  Road,  but  with  the  ease  of  manner  which 
seems  to  belong  to  his  kind.  There's  good  blood  in 
these  sand-hill  people,  and  it  shows  in  a  lack  of  self- 
consciousness  which  makes  one  feel  that  they  would 
meet  a  prince  or  an  emperor  without  embarrass- 
ment VTet  there's  nothing  of  forwardness,  nothing 
of  impertinence  It  is  a  drawing-room  manner,  pre- 
served in  spite  of  generations  of  illiteracy  and  de- 
generation. 

He  is  not  an  unpicturesque  object.  Given  a 
plumed  hat,  a  doublet  and  hose,  and  he  would  look 
the  part,  and  his  manner  would  fit  in  with  it.     Given 

206 


FROM  AMONG  THE  PINES 

good  English,  his  voice  would  never  betray  him  for 
what  he  is.  For  another  thing  that  these  people 
have  preserved  is  a  softness  of  voice  and  an  inflection 
which  is  Elizabethan  rather  than  twentieth  century 
American. 

Having  grown  to  know  him  fairly  well,  I  fished 
for  an  invitation  to  visit  his  home.  I  wanted  to  see 
where  this  gentlemanly  backwoodsman  spent  the 
days  which  were  not  lived  on  the  road. 

I  carried  a  rug  with  me,  and  slept  for  the  first 
night  under  the  open  sky.  Have  you  ever  seen  a 
southern  sky  when  it  was  studded  with  stars  ?  If  not, 
there's  something  yet  before  you.  There's  no  white- 
ness or  coldness  about  these  stars,  they  are  pure  gold, 
and  warm  with  light. 

My  schooner-man  slept  in  his  wagon,  covered 
with  an  old  quilt.  His  mules  were  picketed  close 
by,  the  dog  curled  himself  beside  his  master,  each 
getting  warmth  from  the  other. 

We  cooked  supper  and  breakfast  over  the  coals — 
chickens  broiled  for  our  evening  meal,  ham  and  eggs 
for  the  morning.  We  gave  the  dog  the  bones  and 
the  crusts.  I  took  bread  with  me,  for  Cousin  Patty 
warned  me  that  I  must  not  depend  upon  my 
squire  for  food.  Cooking  among  these  people 
is  a  lost  art.  Cousin  Patty  believes  that  the  re- 
generation of  the  poor  whites  of  the  South  will 
be  accomplished  through  the  women.  "When 
they  learn  to  cook,"  she  says,  "  the  men  won't  need 

207 


CONTRART  MART 

whiskey.  When  the  whiskey  goes,  they'll  respect 
the  law." 

A  mile  before  we  reached  the  end  of  our  journey, 
we  were  met  by  the  children  of  my  schooner-squire. 
Five  of  them — two  boys,  two  girls,  and  a  baby  in 
the  arms  of  the  oldest  girl.  They  all  had  the  gentle 
quiet  and  ease  of  the  father — but  they  were  unkempt 
little  creatures,  uncombed,  unwashed,  in  sad-colored 
clothes.  That's  the  difference  between  the  negro 
and  the  white  man  of  this  region.  The  negro  is 
cheerful,  debonair,  he  sings,  he  dances,  and  he  wears 
all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow.  An  old  black  woman 
who  carries  home  my  wash  wore  the  other  day  a 
purple  petticoat  with  a  scarlet  skirt  looped  above 
it,  an  old  green  sweater,  and,  tied  over  her  head,  a 
pink  wool  shawl.  Against  the  neutral  background 
of  sandy  hill  she  was  a  delight  to  the  eye.  The 
whites  on  the  other  hand  seem  like  little  animals, 
who  have  taken  on  the  color  of  the  landscape  that 
they  may  be  hidden. 

But  to  go  back  to  my  sad  children.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  in  them  I  was  seeing  the  South  with  new 
eyes,  perhaps  because  I  have  been  away  just  long 
enough  to  get  the  proper  perspective.  And  my  life 
has  been,  you  see,  lived  in  the  Southern  cities,  where 
one  touches  rarely  the  primitive. 

The  older  boys  are,  perhaps,  ten  and  twelve,  blue- 
eyed  and  tow-headed.  I  saw  few  signs  of  afFection 
or  intelligence.     They  did  not  kiss  their  father  when 

208 


FROM  AMONG  THE  PINES 

he  came,  except  the  small  girl,  who  ran  to  him  and 
was  hugged  ;  the  others  seemed  to  practice  a  sort  ot 
incipient  stoicism,  as  if  they  were  too  old,  too  settled^ 
for  demonstration. 

The  mother,  as  we  entered,  was  like  her  children. 
None  of  them  has  the  initiative  or  the  energy  of  the 
man.  They  are  subdued  by  the  changeless  condi- 
tions of  their  environment ;  his  one  adventure  of  the 
week  keeps  him  alert  and  alive. 

It  is  a  desolate  country,  charred  pines  sticking  up 
straight  from  white  sand.  It  might  be  made  beauti- 
ful if  for  every  tree  that  they  tapped  for  turpentine 
they  would  plant  a  new  one. 

But  they  don't  know  enough  to  make  things 
beautiful.  The  Moses  of  this  community  will  be 
some  man  who  shall  find  new  methods  of  farming, 
new  crops  for  this  soil,  who  will  show  the  people  how 
to  live. 

And  now  I  come  to  a  strange  fairy-tale  sort  of  ex- 
perience— an  experience  with  the  children  who  have 
lived  always  among  these  charred  pines. 

All  that  evening  as  I  talked,  their  eyes  were  upon 
me,  like  the  eyes  of  little  wild  creatures  of  the  wood 
— a  blank  gaze  which  seemed  to  question.  The  next 
day  vv^hen  I  walked,  they  went  with  me,  and  for  some 
distance  I  carried  the  baby,  to  rest  the  arms  of  the 
big  girl,  who  is  always  burdened. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon  that  we  drifted  to  a  little 
grove   of   young  pines,  the  one  bit  of   pure  green 

209 


CONTRART  MART 

against  the  white  and  gray  and  black  of  that  land- 
scape. The  sky  was  of  sapphire,  with  a  buzzard  or 
two  blotted  against  the  blue. 

Here  with  a  circle  of  the  trees  surrounding  us,  the 
children  sat  down  with  me  They  were  not  a  talka- 
tive group,  and  I  was  overcome  by  a  sense  of  the 
impossibility  of  meeting  them  on  any  common 
ground  of  conversation.  But  they  seemed  to  expect 
something — they  were  like  a  flock  of  little  hungry 
birds  waiting  to  be  fed — and  what  do  you  think  I 
gave  them?  Guess,  But  I  know  you  have  it 
wrong. 

j  I  recited  "  Flos  Mercatorum,"  my  Whittington 
poem  I 

It  was  done  on  an  impulse,  to  find  if  there  was 
anything  in  them  which  would  respond  to  such  rhyme 
and  rapture  of  words. 

I  gave  it  in  my  best  manner,  standing  in  the 
center  of  the  circle.  I  did  not  expect  applause.  But 
I  got  more  than  applause.  I  am  not  going  to  try  to 
describe  the  look  that  came  into  the  eyes  of  the  old- 
est boy — the  nearest  that  I  can  come  to  it  is  to  say 
that  it  was  the  look  of  a  child  waked  from  a  deep 
sleep,  and  gazing  wide-eyed  upon  a  new  world. 

He  came  straight  toward  me,     "  Where — did  you 
-—git — them  words  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  breathless  sort  of 
way 
;    "  A  man  wrote  them — a  man  named  Noyes." 

«  Are  they  true  ?  " 

2IO 


FROM  AMONG  THE  PINES 

'^Yes." 

*'  Say  them  again." 

It  was  not  a  request.  It  was  a  command.  And  I 
did  say  them,  and  saw  a  soul's  awakening. 

Oh,  there  are  people  who  won't  believe  that  it  can 
be  done  like  that — in  a  moment.  But  that  boy  was 
ready.  He  had  dreamed  and  until  now  no  one  had 
ever  put  the  dreams  into  words  for  him.  He  cannot 
read,  has  probably  never  heard  a  fairy  tale — the  lore 
of  this  region  is  gruesome  and  ghostly,  rather  than 
lovely  and  poetic. 

Perhaps,  'way  back,  five,  six  generations,  some 
ancestor  of  this  lad  may  have  drifted  into  London 
town,  perhaps  the  bells  sang  to  him,  and  subcon- 
sciously this  sand-hill  child  was  illumined  by  that 
inherited  memory.  Somewhere  in  the  back  of  his 
mind  bells  have  been  chiming,  and  he  has  not  known 
enough  to  call  them  bells.  However  that  may  be, 
my  verses  revealed  to  him  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth. 

Without  knowing  anything,  he  is  ready  for  every- 
thing. Perhaps  there  are  others  like  him.  Cousin 
Patty  says  there  are  girls.  She  insists  that  the  girls 
need  cook-books,  not  poetry,  but  I  am  not  sure. 

I  shall  go  again  to  the  pines,  and  teach  that  boy 
first  by  telling  him  things,  then  I  shall  take  books. 
I  haven't  been  as  interested  in  anything  for  years  as 
I  am  in  that  boy. 

So,  will  you  think  of  me  as  seeing,  faintly,  the 


CONTRART  MART 

Vision  ?     Your  eyes  are  clearer  tlian  mine.     You  can 
see  farther  ;  and  wliat  you  see,  will  you  tell  me  ? 

And  now  about  Barry.  I  know  how  hard  it  is  to 
have  him  leave  you,  and  that  under  all  your  talk  of 
trumpets  blowing  and  flags  flying,  there's  the  ache 
and  the  heart-break.  I  cannot  see  why  such  things 
should  come  to  you.  The  rest  of  us  probably  deserve 
what  we  get.  But  you — I  should  like  to  think  of  you 
always  as  in  a  garden — you  have  the  power  to  make 
things  bloom.  You  have  even  quickened  the  dry 
dust  of  my  own  dead  life,  so  that  now  in  it  there's 
a  little  plot  of  the  pansies  of  my  thoughts  of  you, 
and  there's  rosemary,  for  remembrance,  and  there's 
the  little  bed  of  my  interest  in  that  boy — what  seeds 
did  you  plant  for  it  ? 

It  is  raining  here  to-night.  I  wonder  if  the  rain  is 
beating  on  the  windows  of  the  Tower  Rooms,  and  if 
you  are  snug  within,  with  Pittiwitz  purring  and  the 
fire  snapping,  and  I  wonder  if  throughout  all  that 
rain  you  are  sending  any  thought  to  me. 

Perhaps  I  shouldn't  ask  it.  But  I  do  ask  for  an- 
other letter.  What  the  last  was  to  me  I  have  told 
yoa     I  shall  live  on  the  hope  of  the  next. 

Faithfully  and  gratefully  always, 
Roger  Poole. 


213 


CHAPTER  XV 

In  Which  Barry  and  Leila  Go  Over  the  Hills  and 
Far  Away ;  a?id  in  Which  a  March  Moon  Be- 
comes a  Honeymoon. 

THE  news  that  Barry  must  go  away  had  been  a 
blow  to  Leila's  childish  dreams  of  immediate 
happiness.  She  knew  that  Barry  was  bitter,  that  he 
rebelled  against  the  plans  which  were  being  made 
for  him,  but  she  did  not  know  that  Gordon  had  told 
the  General  frankly  and  flatly  the  reason  for  this 
delay  in  the  matrimonial  arrangements. 

The  General,  true  to  his  ancient  code,  had  protested 
that  "a  man  could  drink  like  a  gentleman,"  that 
Barry'  s  good  blood  would  tell.  "  His  wild  oats 
aren't  very  wild — and  every  boy  must  have  his 
fling." 

Gordon  had  listened  impatiently,  as  to  an  ancient 
and  outworn  philosophy.  "The  business  world 
doesn't  take  into  account  the  wild  oats  of  a  man, 
General,"  he  had  said.  "  The  new  game  isn't  like  the 
old  one, — the  convivial  spirit  is  not  the  popular  one 
among  men  of  affairs.  And  that  isn't  the  worst  of 
it ;  with  Barry's  temperament  there's  danger  of  a 
breakdown,  moral  and  physical     If  it  were  not  for 

213 


CONTRART  MART 

that,  he  could  come  into  your  office  and  practice 
law,  as  you  suggest.  But  he's  got  to  get  away  from 
Washington.  He's  got  to  get  away  from  old  as- 
sociations, and  you'll  pardon  me  for  saying  it,  he's 
got  to  get  away  from  Leila.  She  loves  him,  and  is 
sorry  for  him,  even  though  we've  kept  from  her  the 
knowledge  of  his  fault.  She  thinks  we  are  all  against 
him  and  her  sympathy  weakens  him.  It  was  the 
same  with  her  mother,  Constance  tells  me.  She 
wouldn't  believe  that  her  boy  could  be  anything  but 
perfect,  and  John  Ballard  wasn't  strong  enough  to 
counteract  her  influence.  Mary  was  the  only  one, 
and  now  that  it  has  come  to  an  actual  crisis,  even 
Mary  blames  me  for  trying  to  do  what  I  know  is 
best  for  Barry.  I  want  to  take  him  over  to  the  other 
side,  cut  him  away  from  all  that  hampers  him  here, 
and  bring  him  back  to  you  stronger  in  fiber  and 
more  of  a  man." 

The  General  shook  his  head.  **  Perhaps,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  the  hurt  heart  of  my 
litde  Leila." 

"  They  should  never  have  been  engaged,"  Gordon 
said,  "  but  it  won't  make  matters  any  better  to  let 
things  go  on.  If  Leila  doesn't  marry  Barry,  she 
won't  have  to  bear  the  burdens  he  will  surely  bring 
to  her  She'd  better  be  unhappy  with  you  to  take 
care  of  her,  than  tied  to  him  and  unhappy." 

"  But  I'm  an  old  man,  and  she  is  such  a  child 
Life  for  me  is  so  short,  and  for  her  so  long." 

214 


OVER  THE  HILLS 

"  We  must  do  what  seems  best  for  the  moment, 
and  let  the  future  take  care  of  itself.  Barry's  only  a 
boy.  They  are  neither  of  them  ready  for  marriage 
— a  few  years  of  waiting  won't  hurt  them." 

It  was  in  this  strain  that  Gordon  talked  to  Barry, 

"  It  won't  hurt  you  to  wait." 

"Wait  for  what?/'  Barry  flamed;  "until  Leila 
wears  her  heart  out  ?  Until  you  teach  her  that  I'm 
not — fit?  Until  somebody  else  comes  along  and 
steals  her,  while  I'm  gone  ?  " 

"  Is  that  the  opinion  you  have  of  her  constancy  ?  '* 

"  No,"  Barry  said,  huskily,  "  she's  as  true  as  steel. 
But  I  can't  see  the  use  of  this,  Gordon.  If  I  marry 
Leila,  she'll  make  a  man  of  me." 

"  She  hasn't  changed  you  during  these  last 
months,"  Gordon  stated,  inexorably,  "  and  you 
mustn't  run  the  risk  of  making  her  unhappy.  It  is 
a  mere  business  proposition  that  I  am  putting  before 
you,  Barry.  You  must  be  able  to  support  a  wife 
before  you  marry  one,  and  Washington  isn't  the 
place  for  you  to  start  In  a  business  like  ours,  a  man 
must  be  at  his  best.  You  are  wasting  your  time 
here,  and  you've  acquired  the  habit  of  sociability, 
which  is  just  a  habit,  but  it  grows  and  will  end  by 
paralyzing  your  forces.  A  man  who's  always  ready 
to  be  with  the  crowd  isn't  the  man  that's  ready  for 
work,  and  he  isn't  the  man  who's  usually  onto  his 
job.  I  am  putting  this  not  from  any  moral  or  spiri- 
tual ideal,  but  from  the  commercial.     The  man  who 

215 


CONTRART  MART 

wins  out  isn't  the  one  with  his  brain  fuddled ;  he's 
the  one  with  his  brain  clear.  Business  to-day  is  too 
keen  a  game  for  any  one  to  play  who  isn't  willing  to 
be  at  it  all  the  time." 

Thus  practical  common  sense  met  the  boy  at  every 
turn.  And  he  was  forced  at  last  for  pride's  sake  to 
consent  to  Gordon's  plans  for  him.  But  he  had 
gone  to  Mary,  raging.  "Is  he  going  to  run  our 
lives  ?  " 

"  He  is  doing  it  for  your  good,  Barry." 
"  Why  can't  I  go  South  with  Roger  Poole  ? — if  I 
must  go  away  ?     He  told  me  of  a  man  who  stayed 
in  the  woods  with  him." 

"  That  would  simply  be  temporary,  and  it  would 
delay  matters.     Gordon's  idea  is  that  in  this  way 
you'll  be  established  in  business.     If  you  went  South 
you'd  be  without  any  remunerative  occupation." 
"  Doesn't  Poole  make  a  living  down  there?  " 
•*  He  hasn't  yet.     He's  to  try  story-writing." 
"  Are  you  corresponding  with  him,  Mary  ?  " 
Resenting  his  catechism,  she  forced  herself  to  say, 
quietly,  "  We  write  now  and  then." 
"  What  does  Porter  think  of  that  ?  " 
"  Porter  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  it." 
"  He  has,  too.    You  know  you'll  marry  him,  Mary." 
*'  I  shall  not.     I  haven't  the  least  idea  of  marrying 
Porter." 

"  Then  why  do  you  let  him  hang  around  you  ?  " 
"Barry,''  she  was  blazing,  "I  don't  let  him  hang 

2X6 


OVER  THE  HILLS 

around.     He  comes  as  he  has  always  come — to  see 
us  all." 

"  Do  you  think  for  a  moment  that  he'd  come  if  it 
weren't  for  you  ?  He  isn't  craving  my  society,  or 
Aunt  Isabelle's,  or  Susan  Jenks'." 

Barry  was  glad  to  blame  somebody  else  for  some- 
thing— he  was  aware  of  himself  as  the  blackest  sheep 
in  the  fold,  but  let  those  who  had  other  sins  hear 
them. 

He  flung  himself  away  from  her — out  of  the  house. 
And  for  days  he  did  not  come  home.  They  kept 
the  reason  of  his  absence  from  Leila,  and  as  far  as 
they  could  from  Constance.  But  Mary  went  nearly 
wild  with  anxiety,  and  she  found  in  Gordon  a  strength 
and  a  resourcefulness  on  which  she  leaned. 

When  Barry  came  back,  he  offered  no  further 
objections  to  their  plans.  Yet  they  could  see  that 
he  was  consenting  to  his  exile  only  because  he  had 
no  argument  with  which  to  meet  theirs.  He  refused 
to  resign  from  the  Patent  Office  until  the  last  moment, 
as  if  hoping  for  some  reprieve  from  the  sentence 
which  his  family  had  pronounced.  He  was  moody, 
irritable,  a  changed  boy  from  the  one  who  had 
hippity-hopped  with  Leila  on  Constance's  wedding 
night. 

Even  Leila  saw  the  change.  "  Barry,  dear,"  she 
said  one  evening  as  she  sat  beside  him  in  her  father's 
library,  "  Barry — is  it  because  you  hate  to  leave — 
me?" 

217 


CONTRART  MART 

He  turned  to  her  almost  fiercely.  "  If  I  had  a 
penny  of  my  own,  Leila,  I'd  pick  you  up,  and  we'd 
go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  together." 

And  she  responded  breathlessly,  "  It  would  be 
heavenly,  Barry." 

He  dallied  with  temptation.  "  If  we  were  married, 
no  one  could  take  you  away  from  me." 

"  No  one  will  ever  take  me  away." 

"  I  know.  But  they  might  try  to  make  you  give 
me  up." 

"  Why  should  they  ?  " 

"  They'll  say  that  I'm  not  worthy— that  I'm  a  poor 
idiot  who  can't  earn  a  living  for  his  wife." 

"  Oh,  Barry,"  she  whispered,  *'  how  can  any  one  say 
such  things  ?"  She  knelt  on  a  little  stool  beside  him, 
and  her  brown  hair  curled  madly  about  her  pink 
cheeks.  "  Oh,  Barry,"  she  said  again,  "  why  not — why 
not  get  married  now,  and  show  them  that  we  can  live 
on  what  you  make,  and  then  you  needn't  go — away." 

He  caught  at  that  hope.  "  But,  sweetheart,  you'd 
be — poor." 

"  I'd  have  you." 

"  I  couldn't  take  you  to  our  old  house.  It — be- 
longs to  Mary.  Father  knew  that  Constance  was  to 
be  married,  so  he  tried  to  provide  for  Mary  until  she 
married ;  after  that  the  property  will  be  divided 
between  the  two  girls.  He  felt  that  I  was  a  man, 
and  he  spent  what  money  he  had  for  me  on  my 
education." 

218 


OVER  THE  HILLS 

"  I  don't  want  to  live  in  Mary's  house.  We  could 
Bve  with  Dad." 

"  No,"  sharply.  Barry  had  been  hurt  when  the 
General  had  seemed  to  agree  so  entirely  with  Gordon. 
He  had  expected  the  offer  of  a  place  in  the  General's 
office,  and  it  had  not  come. 

"  If  we  marry,  darling,"  he  said,  "  we  must  go  it 
alone.     I  won't  be  dependent  on  any  one." 

"We  could  have  a  litde  apartment/'  her  eyes 
were  shining,  "  and  Dad  would  furnish  it  for  us,  and 
Susan  Jenks  could  teach  me  to  cook  and  she  could 
tell  me  your  favorite  things,  and  we'd  have  them, 
and  it  would  be  like  a  story  book.     Barry,  please." 

He,  too,  thought  it  would  be  like  a  story  book. 
Other  people  had  done  such  things  and  had  been 
happy.  And  once  at  the  head  of  his  own  household 
he  would  show  them  that  he  was  a  man. 

Yet  he  tried  to  put  her  away  from  him.  "  I  must 
not.     It  wouldn't  be  right." 

But  as  the  days  went  on,  and  the  time  before  his 
departure    grew   short,   he   began  to  ask   himself, 

Why  not?" 

And  it  was  thus,  with  Romance  in  the  lead,  with 
Love  urging  them  on,  and  with  Ignorance  and 
Innocence  and  Impetuosity  hand  in  hand,  that,  at 
last,  in  the  madness  of  a  certain  March  moon,  Leila 
and  Barry  ran  away. 

Leila  had  a  friend  in  Rockville — an  old  school 
friend  whom  she  often  visited.     Barry  knew  Mont- 

219 


CONTRART  MARY 

gomery  County  from  end  to  end.  He  had  fished 
and  hunted  in  its  streams,  he  had  motored  over  its 
roads,  he  had  danced  and  dined  at  its  country  houses, 
he  had  golfed  at  its  country  clubs,  he  had  slept  at  its 
inns  and  worshiped  in  its  churches. 

So  it  was  to  Montgomery  County  and  its  county 
seat  that  they  looked  for  their  Gretna  Green,  and 
one  night  Leila  kissed  her  father  wistfully,  and  told 
him  that  she  was  going  to  see  Elizabeth  Dean, 

"Just  for  Saturday,  Dad.  I'll  go  Friday  night, 
and  come  back  in  time  for  dinner  Saturday." 

"  Why  not  motor  out  ?  " 

"  The  train  will  be  easier.  And  I'll  telephone  you 
when  I  get  there." 

She  took  chances  on  the  telephoning — for  had 
he  called  her  up,  he  would  have  found  that  she 
did  not  reach  Rockville  on  Friday  night,  nor  was 
she  expected  by  Elizabeth  Dean  until  Saturday  in 
time  for  lunch. 

There  was  thus  an  evening  and  a  night  and  the 
morning  of  the  next  day  in  which  Little-Lovely  Leila 
was  to  be  lost  to  the  world. 

She  took  the  train  for  Rockville,  but  stopped  at  a 
station  half-way  between  that  town  and  Washington, 
and  there  Barry  met  her.  They  had  dinner  at  the 
iittle  station  restaurant — a  wonderful  dinner  of  ham 
and  eggs  and  boiled  potatoes,  but  the  wonderfulness 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  food  ;  it  had  to  do  rather 
with  Little-Lovely  Leila's  shining  eyes  and  blushes 

220 


OFER  THE  HILLS 

and  Barry's  abounding  spirits.  He  was  like  a  boy 
out  of  school.  He  teased  Leila  and  wrote  poetry  on 
the  fly-specked  dinner  card,  reading  it  out  loud  to 
her,  reveling  in  her  lovely  confusion. 

When  they  finished,  Leila  telephoned  to  her  father 
that  she  had  arrived  at  Rockville  and  was  safe.  If 
her  voice  wavered  a  little  as  she  said  it,  if  her  eyes 
filled  at  the  trustfulness  of  his  affectionate  response, 
these  things  were  soon  forgotten,  as  Barry  caught  up 
her  little  bag,  and  they  left  the  station,  and  started 
over  the  hills  in  search  of  happiness. 

The  way  was  rather  long,  but  they  had  thought  it 
best  to  avoid  trolley  or  train  or  much-traveled  roads, 
lest  they  be  recognized.  And  so  it  came  about  that 
they  crossed  fields,  and  slipped  through  the  edges 
of  groves,  and  when  the  twilight  fell  Little-Lovely 
Leila  danced  along  the  way,  and  Barry  danced,  too, 
until  the  moon  came  up  round  and  gold  above  the 
blackness  of  the  distant  hills. 

Once  they  came  to  a  stream  that  was  like  silver, 
and  once  they  passed  through  a  ghostly  orchard 
with  budding  branches,  and  once  they  came  to  a 
farmhouse  where  a  dog  barked  at  them,  and  the  dog 
and  the  orchard  and  the  budding  trees  and  the  stream 
all  seemed  to  be  saying  : 

"  You  are  running  away — you  are  running 
away." 

And  now  they  had  walked  a  mile,  and  there  was 
yet  another 

221 


CONTRART  MART 

"  But  what's  a  mile  ?  "  said  Barry,  and  Littie- Lovely 
Leila  laughed. 

She  wore  a  frock  of  pale  yellow,  with  a  thick  warm 
coat  of  the  same  fashionable  color.  Her  hat  was  de- 
murely tied  under  her  little  chin  with  black  velvet 
ribbons.  She  was  like  a  primrose  of  the  spring — 
and  Barry  kissed  her. 

"May  I  tell  Dad,  when  I  get  home  to-morrow 
night  ?  "  she  asked. 

"We'll  wait  until  Sunday.  April  Fool's  Day, 
Leila.  We'll  tell  him,  and  he  will  think  it's  a  joke. 
And  when  he  sees  how  happy  we  are,  he  will  know 
we  were  right." 

So  like  children  they  refused  to  let  the  thought  of 
the  future  mar  the  joy  of  the  present. 

Once  they  rested  on  a  fallen  log  in  a  little  grove 
of  trees.  The  wind  had  died  down,  and  the  air  was 
warm,  with  the  still  warmth  of  a  Southern  spring. 
Between  the  trees  they  could  see  a  ribbon  of  white 
road  which  wound  up  to  a  shadowy  church. 

"  The  minister's  house  is  next  to  the  church,"  Barry 
told  her ;  "  in  a  half  hour  from  now  you'll  be  mine, 
Leila.     And  no  one  can  take  you  away  from  me." 

In  the  wonder  of  that  thought  they  were  silent  for 
a  time,  then : 

"  How  strange  it  will  seem  to  be  married,  Barry.'' 

"  It  seems  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to 
me.  But  there  will  be  those  who  will  say  I  shouldn't 
have  let  you." 

223 


OVER  THE  HILLS 

**  I  let  myself.  It  wasn't  you.  Did  you  want  my 
heart  to  break  at  your  going,  Barry  ?  " 

For  a  moment  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  then  he 
kissed  her,  gently,  and  let  her  go.  When  they  came 
back  this  way,  she  would  be  his  wife. 

The  old  minister  asked  few  questions.  He  be 
lieved  in  youth  and  love ;  the  laws  of  the  state  were 
lenient.  So  with  the  members  of  his  family  for  wit- 
nesses, he  declared  in  due  time  that  this  man  and 
woman  were  one,  and  again  they  went  forth  into  the 
moonUght. 

And  now  there  was  another  little  journey,  up  one 
hill  and  down  another  to  a  quaint  hostelry — almost 
empty  of  guests  in  this  early  season. 

A  competent  little  landlady  and  an  old  colored 
man  led  them  to  the  suite  for  which  Barry  had  tele- 
phoned. The  little  landlady  smiled  at  Leila  and 
showed  the  white  roses  which  Barry  had  sent  for 
her  room,  and  the  old  colored  man  lighted  all  the 
candles. 

There  was  a  supper  set  out  on  the  table  in  their 
sitting-room,  with  cold  roast  chicken  and  hot  biscuits, 
a  bottle  of  light  wine,  and  a  round  cake  with  white 
frosting. 

Leila  cut  the  cake.  "  To  think  that  I  should  have 
a  wedding  cake,"  she  said  to  Barry. 

So  they  made  a  feast  of  it,  but  Barry  did  not  open 
the  bottle  of  wine  until  their  supper  was  ended.  Then 
he  poured  two  glasses. 

223 


CONTRART  MART 

"To  you,"  he  whispered,  and  smiled  at  his 
bride. 

Then  before  his  lips  could  touch  it,  he  set  the 
glass  down  hastily,  so  that  it  struck  against  thf 
bottle  and  broke,  and  the  wine  stained  the  white 
cloth. 

Leila  looking  up,  startled,   met  a  strange  look 
"  Barry,"  she  whispered,  "  Barry,  dear  boy." 

He  rose  and  blew  out  the  candles. 

"  Let  me  tell  you — in  the  dark,"  he  said.  '*  You've 
got  to  know,  Leila." 

And  in  the  moonlight  he  told  her  why  they  had 
wanted  him  to  go  away 

"  It  is  because  I've  got  to  fight — devils." 

At  first  she  did  not  understand.  But  he  made  her 
understand. 

She  was  such  a  little  thing  in  her  yellow  gown. 
So  little  and  young  to  deal  with  a  thmg  like  this, 

But  in  that  moment  the  child  became  a  woman. 
She  bent  over  him. 

'*  My  husband,"  she  said,  "  nothing  can  ever  part 
us  now,  Barry." 

So  love  taught  her  what  to  say,  and  so  she  com- 
forted him. 

The  next  morning  Elizabeth  Dean  met  Leila  Dick 
at  the  station.  That  she  was  really  meeting  Leila 
Ballard  was  a  thing,  of  course,  of  which  she  had  no 
knowledge.     But  Leila  was  acutely  conscious  of  her 

224 


OVER   THE  HILLS 

new  estate.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  motor  horn 
brayed  it,  that  the  birds  sang  it,  that  the  cows  mooed 
it,  that  the  dogs  barked  it,  "  Leila  Ballard,  Leila 
Ballard,  Leila  Ballard,  wife  of  Barry — youWe  not 
L^ila  Dick,  you! re  not,  you* re  not,  you're  not" 

"  I  never  knew  you  to  be  so  quiet,"  Elizabeth  said 
at  last,  curiously.     "  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

Leila  brought  herself  back  with  an  effort.  "  I  like 
to  listen,"  she  said,  "  but  I  am  usually  such  a  chatter- 
box that  people  won't  believe  it." 

Somehow  she  managed  to  get  through  that  day 
Somehow  she  managed  to  greet  and  meet  the  people 
who  had  been  invited  to  the  luncheon  which  was 
given  in  her  honor.  But  while  in  body  she  was 
with  them,  in  spirit  she  was  with  Barry.  Barry  was 
her  husband — her  husband  who  loved  her  and  needed 
her  in  his  life. 

His  confession  of  the  night  before  had  brought 
with  it  no  deadening  sense  of  hopelessness.  To  her, 
any  future  with  Barry  was  rose-colored. 

But  it  had  changed  her  attitude  toward  him  in 
this,  that  she  no  longer  adored  him  as  a  strong 
young  god  who  could  stand  alone,  and  whom  she 
must  worship  because  of  his  condescension  in  casting 
his  eyes  upon  her. 

He  needed  her  I  He  needed  little  Leila  Dick  ! 
And  the  thought  gave  to  her  marriage  a  deeper 
meaning  than  that  of  mere  youthful  raptures. 

He  had  put  her  on  the  train  that  morning  re* 


CONTRART  MART 

Iuctantly»   and    had   promised  to   call   her  up   the 
moment  she  reached  town. 

So  her  journey  toward  Washington  on  the  evening 
train  was  an  hour  of  anticipation.  To  those  who 
rode  with  her,  she  seemed  a  very  pretty  and  self- 
contained  young  person  making  a  perfectly  proper 
and  commonplace  trip  on  the  five  o'clock  express — 
in  her  own  mind,  she  was  set  apart  from  all  the  rest 
by  the  fact  of  her  transcendant  romance. 

Her  father  met  her  at  the  station  and  put  her  into 
a  taxi.     All  the  way  home  she  sat  with  her  hand  in  his. 

'*  Did  you  have  a  good  time  ?  "  he  asked. 

•*  Heavenly,  Dad." 

They  ate  dinner  together,  and  she  talked  of  her 
day,  wishing  that  there  was  nothing  to  keep  from 
him,  wishing  that  she  might  whisper  it  to  him  now. 
She  had  no  fear  of  his  disapproval.     Dad  loved  her. 

No  call  had  come  from  Barry  She  finished 
dinner  and  wandered  restlessly  from  room  to  room. 

When  nine  o'clock  struck,  she  crept  into  the 
General's  library,  and  found  him  in  his  big  chair 
reading  and  smoking. 

She  sat  on  a  little  stool  beside  him,  and  laid  her 
head  against  his  knee.  Presently  his  hand  slipped 
from  his  book  and  touched  her  curls.  And  then 
both  sat  looking  into  the  fire. 

"  If  your  mother  had  lived,  my  darling,"  the  old 
man  said,  "  she  would  have  made  things  easier  for 
you." 

226 


OVER  THE  HILLS 

"  About  Barry's  going  away  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  seems  silly  for  him  to  go,  Dad.  Surely  there's 
something  here  for  him  to  do." 

"  Gordon  thinks  that  the  trip  will  bring  out  his 
manhood,  make  him  less  of  a  boy." 

"  I  don't  think  Gordon  understands  Barry." 

"  And  you  do,  baby  ?     Fm  afraid  you  spoil  him." 

"  Nobody  could  spoil  Barry." 

*'  Don't  love  him  too  much." 

"  As  if  1  could." 

"  I'm  not  sure,"  the  old  man  said,  shrewdly,  "  that 
you  don't.  And  no  man's  worth  it.  Most  of  us  are 
selfish  pigs — we  take  all  we  can  get — and  what  we 
give  is  usually  less  than  we  ask  in  return." 

But  now  she  was  smiling  into  the  fire.  *'  You 
gave  mother  all  that  you  had  to  give,  Dad,  and 
you  made  her  happy." 

"  Yes,  thank  God,"  and  now  there  were  tears  on 
the  old  cheeks  ;  "  for  the  short  time  that  I  had  her 
— I  made  her  happy." 

When  Barry  came,  he  found  her  curled  up  in  her 
father's  arms.  Over  her  head  the  General  smiled 
at  this  boy  who  was  some  day  to  take  her  from 
him. 

But  Barry  did  not  smile.  He  greeted  the  General, 
and  when  Leila  came  to  him,  tremulously  self- 
conscious,  he  did  not  meet  her  eyes,  but  he  took  her 
hand  in  his  tightly,  while  he  spoke  to  her  father. 

227 


CONTRART  MART 

**  You  won't  mind,  General,  if  I  carry  Leila  of!  to 
the  other  room.     I've  a  lot  of  things  to  say  to  her." 

"  Of  course  not.  I  was  in  love  once  myself, 
Barry." 

They  went  into  the  other  room.  It  was  a  long 
and  formal  parlor  with  crystal  chandeliers  and  rose- 
colored  stuffed  furniture  and  gilt-framed  mirrors.  It 
had  been  furnished  by  the  General's  mother,  and  his 
little  wife  had  loved  it  and  had  kept  it  unchanged. 

It  was  dimly  lighted  now,  and  Leila  in  her  white 
dinner  gown  and  Barry  tall  and  slender  in  his  even- 
ing black  were  reflected  by  the  long  mirrors  mistily, 

Barry  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her.  "  My 
wife,  my  wife,"  he  said,  again  and  again,  "  my 
wife." 

At  first  she  yielded  gladly,  meeting  his  rapture 
with  her  own.  But  presently  she  became  aware  of 
a  wildness  in  his  manner,  a  broken  note  in  his 
whispers. 

So  she  released  herself,  and  stood  back  a  little 
from  him,  and  asked,  breathing  quickly,  "  Barry, 
what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Everything.  Since  I  left  you  this  morning  I've 
lost  my  place  I  found  the  envelope  on  my  desk 
this  morning — telling  of  my  discharge.  They  said 
that  I'd  been  too  often  away  without  sufficient 
excuse,  and  so  they  have  dropped  me  from  the  rolls. 
And  you  see  that  what  Gordon  said  was  true.  I 
can't  earn  a  living  tor  a  wife.     Now  that  I  have  you, 

228 


OFER  THE  HILLS 

I  can't  take  care  of  you — it  is  not  much  of  a  fellow 
that  you've  married,  Leila." 

Oh,  the  little  white  face  with  the  shining  eyes ! 

Then  out  of  the  stillness  came  her  cry,  like  a  bird's 
note,  triumphant.  "  But  I'm  your  wife  now,  and 
nothing  can  part  us,  Barry." 

He  caught  up  her  hands  in  his.  "  Dearest,  dear- 
est— don't  you  see  that  I  can't  ever  tell  them  of  our 
marriage  until  I  can  show  them " 

"Show  them  what,  Barry?" 

"  That  I  can  take  care  of  you." 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  mustn't  even  tell  Dad, 
Barry?" 

"  You  mustn't  tell  any  one,  not  until  1  come  back." 

Every  drop  of  blood  was  drained  from  her  face. 

"  Until  you  come  back.     Are  you  going — away? ' 

"  I  promised  Gordon  to-day  that  I  would." 

She  swayed  a  little,  and  he  caught  her.  "  1  had 
to  promise,  Leila.  Don't  you  see?  I  haven't  a 
penny,  and  I  can't  confess  to  them  that  I've  married 
you.  I  wanted  to  tell  him  that  you  were  mine — that 
all  your  sweetness  and  dearness  belonged  to  me.  I 
wanted  to  shout  it  to  the  world.  But  I  haven't  a 
penny,  and  I'm  proud,  and  I  won't  let  Gordon  think 
I've  been  a — fool.' 

"  But  Dad  would  help  us." 

"  Do  you  think  I'd  beg  him  to  give  me  what  he 
hasn't  offered,  Leila?  I've  got  to  show  them  that 
I'm  not  a  boy." 

229 


CONTRART  MART 

She  struggled  to  bring  herself  out  of  the  strange 
numbness  which  gripped  her.  "  If  I  could  only  tell 
Dad." 

"  Surely  it  can  be  our  own  sweet  secret,  dearest." 

She  laid  her  cheek  against  his  arm,  in  a  dumb 
gesture  of  surrender,  and  her  little  bare  left  hand 
crept  up  and  rested  like  a  white  rose  petal  against 
the  blackness  of  his  coat. 

He  laid  his  own  upon  it.  "  Poor  little  hand  with- 
out a  wedding  ring,"  he  said. 

And  now  the  numbness  seemed  to  engulf  her,  to 
break 

"  Hush,  Leila,  dear  one." 

But  she  could  not  hush.  That  very  morning  they 
had  slipped  the  wedding  ring  over  a  length  of  nar- 
row blue  ribbon,  and  Barry  had  tied  it  about  her 
neck.  To-morrow,  he  had  promised,  she  should 
wear  it  for  all  the  world  to  see. 

But  she  was  not  to  wear  it.  It  must  be  hidden, 
as  she  had  hidden  it  all  day  above  her  heart. 

"  Leila,  you  are  making  it  hard  for  me." 

It  was  the  man's  cry  of  selfishness,  but  hearing  it, 
she  put  her  own  trouble  aside.  He  needed  her,  and 
her  king  could  do  no  wrong. 

So  she  set  herself  to  comfort  him.  In  the  month 
that  was  left  to  them  they  would  make  the  most  of 
their  happiness.  Then  perhaps  she  could  get  Dad 
to  bring  her  over  in  the  summer,  and  he  should 
show  her  London,  and  all  the  lovely  places,  and 


OVER   THE  HILLS 

there  would  be  the  letters ;  she  would  write  every- 
thing — and  he  must  write. 

"You  little  saint,"  he  said  when  he  left  her, 
"  you're  too  good  for  me,  but  all  that's  best  in  me 
belongs  to  you — my  precious." 

She  went  to  the  door  with  him  and  said  "  good- 
night" bravely. 

Then  she  shut  the  door  and  shivered.  When  at 
last  she  made  her  way  through  the  hall  to  the  library, 
she  seemed  to  be  pushing  against  some  barrier,  so 
that  her  way  was  slow. 

On  the  threshold  of  that  room  she  stopped 

•'  Dad,"  she  said,  sharply. 

"My  darling  " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  just  in  time  and  caught  her. 

She  lay  against  his  heart  white  and  still.  The 
strain  of  the  last  two  days  had  been  too  great  for 
her  and  Litde-Lovely  Leila  had  fainted  dead  away 


•^a 


CHAPTER  XVI 

In  Which  a  Long  Name  is  Bestowed  Upon  a  Beauti- 
ful Baby  ;  and  in  Which  a  Letter  in  a  Long  En- 
velope Brings  Freedom  to  Mary. 

THE  christening  of  Constance's  baby  brought  to- 
gether a  group  of  feminine  personalities,  which, 
to  one  possessed  with  imagination,  might  have  stood 
for  the  evil  and  beneficent  fairies  of  the  old  story 
books. 

The  little  Mary-Constance  Ballard  Richardson,  in 
spite  of  the  dignity  of  her  hyphenated  name,  was  a 
wee  morsei.  Swathed  in  fine  linen,  she  showed  to 
the  unprejudiced  eye  no  signs  of  great  beauty. 
With  a  wrinkly-red  skin,  a  funny  round  nose,  a 
toothless  mouth — she  was  like  every  other  normal 
baby  of  her  age,  but  to  her  family  and  friends  she 
was  a  rare  and  unmatched  object. 

Even  Aunt  Frances  succumbed  to  her  charms. 
"  I  must  say,"  she  remarked  to  Delilah  Jeliffe,  as 
they  bent  over  the  bassinet,  "  that  she  is  remarkable 
for  her  age." 

Delilah  shrugged.  **  I'm  not  fond  of  them. 
They're  so  red  and  squirmy." 

Leila  protested  hotly.  "  Delilah,  she's  lovely — 
such  little  perfect  hands." 

232 


A  LONG  ENVELOPE 

"  Bird's  claws  !  " 

Mary  took  up  the  chant.     "  Her  skin's  like  a  rose 
leaf." 

And  Grace  :  *'  Her  hair  is  going  to  be  gold,  like 
ber  mother's." 

"Hair?"  Delilah's  tone  was  incredulous.  "She 
hasn't  any." 

Aunt  Frances  expertly  turned  the  small  morsel  on 
its  back.  "  What  do  you  call  that  ?  "  she  demanded, 
indignantly. 

Above  the  fat  crease  of  the  baby's  neck  stuck  out 
a  little  feathery  duck's-tail  curl — bri^^ht  as  a  sun- 
beam. 

"  What  do  you  call  that  ? "  came  the  chorus  kjI 
worshipers. 

Delilah  gave  way  to  quiet,  mocking  laughter. 
"That  isn't  hair,"  she  said;  "it  is  just  a  sample  of 
yellow  silk." 

Porter,  coming  up,  was  treated  to  a  repetition  of 
this  remark. 

"  Let  us  thank  the  Gods  that  it  isn't  red,"  was  his 
fervent  response. 

Grace's  hands  went  up  to  her  own  lovely  hair. 

'  Oh,"  she  reproached  him. 

Porter  apologized  "  I  was  thinking  of  my  carroty 
head.     Yours  is  glorious." 

"  Artists  paint  it,"  Grace  agreed  pensively,  "  and 
it  goes  well  with  the  right  kind  of  clothes." 

Delilah  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 
233 


CONTRART  MART 

"  You  two  would  make  a  beautiful  pair  of  saints 
on  a  stained  glass  window,"  she  said  refiectively, 
"  with  a  spike  of  lilies  and  halos  back  of  your 
heads." 

"  Most  women  are  ready  for  halos,"  Porter  said, 
"  and  wings,  but  I  can't  see  myself  balancing  a  spike 
of  lilies." 

"  Nor  I,"  Grace  rippled  ;  "  you'd  better  make  it 
hollyhocks,  Delilah — do  you  know  the  old  rhyme 

'*  *  A  beau  never  goes 

Where  the  hollyhock  blows '  ?  " 


"  You've  never  lacked  men  in  your  life,"  Delilah 
told  her,  shrewdly,  "  but  with  that  hair  you  won't  be 
one  of  the  comfortable  married  kind — it  will  be 
either  a  graitde  passion  or  a  career  for  you.  If  you 
don't  find  your  Romeo,  you'll  be  Mother  Superior  in 
a  convent,  the  head  of  a  deaconess  home,  or  a  nurse 
on  a  batde-field." 

Grace's  eyes  sparkled.  "  Oh,  wise  Delilah,  you 
haven't  drifted  so  very  far  away  from  my  dreams. 
Where  did  you  get  your  wisdom  ?  " 

"  I'm  learning  things  from  Colin  Quale.  We 
study  types  together.  It's  great  fun  for  me,  but  he's 
perfectly  serious." 

Colin  Quale  was  Delilah's  artist.  "  Why  didn't 
you  bring  him  ?  "  Constance  asked. 

"  Because  he  doesn't  belong  in  this  family  group, 
234 


A  LONG  ENFELOPE 

and  anyhow  I  had  something  for  him  to  do.  He's 
making  a  sketch  of  the  gown  1  am  to  wear  at  the 
White  House  garden  party.  It  will  keep  him  busy 
for  the  afternoon." 

"Delilah,"  Leila  looked  up  from  her  worship  of 
Mary-Constance,  "  I  don't  believe  you  ever  see  in 
people  anything  but  the  way  they  look." 

"  I  don't,  duckie.  To  me — you  are  a  sort  of 
family  art  gallery.  I  hang  you  up  in  my  mind,  and 
you  make  a  rather  nice  little  collection." 

Barry,  coming  in,  caught  up  her  words,  with  some- 
thing of  his  old  vivacity. 

'*  The  baby  belongs  to  the  Dutch  school — with 
that  nose." 

There  wcis  a  chorus  of  protest.  j 

"  She  looks  like  you,"  Delilah  told  him.  "  Except 
for  her  nose,  she's  a  Ballard.  There's  nothing  of  her 
father  in  her,  except  her  beautiful  disposition." 

She  flashed  a  challenging  glance  at  Gordon.  He 
stiffened.  Such  women  as  Delilah  Jeliffe  might  have 
their  place  in  the  eternal  scheme  of  femininity,  but 
he  doubted  it. 

"  She  is  a  Ballard  even  in  that,"  he  said,  formally  ; 
"it  is  Constance  whose  disposition  is  beyond  criti- 
cism, not  mine." 

"  And  now    that   you've    carried  off  Constance, 
you're    going  to  take  Barry,"  Delilah  reproached 
him. 

Leila  dropped  the  baby's  hand. 

235 


CONTRART  MART 

"  Yes,"  Gordon  discussed  the  subject  with  evident 
reluctance,  "  he's  going  over  with  me,  to  learn  the 
business — he  may  never  have  a  better  opportunity." 

The  light  went  out  of  Barry's  eyes.  He  left  the 
little  group,  wandered  to  the  window,  and  stood  look- 
ing out. 

**  Mary  will  go  next,"  Delilah  prophesied.  "  With 
Constance  and  Barry  on  the  other  side,  she  won't  be 
able  to  keep  away." 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "  What  would  Aunt  Isabella 
and  Susan  Jenks  and  Pittiwitz  do  without  me  ?  " 

"  What  would  I  do  without  you  ? "  Porter  de- 
manded, boldly.  "  Don't  put  such  ideas  in  her  head, 
Delilah  ;  she's  remote  enough  as  it  is." 

But  Mary  was  not  listening.  Barry  had  slipped 
from  the  room,  and  presently  she  followed  him. 
Leila  had  seen  him  go,  and  had  looked  after  him 
longingly,  but  of  late  she  had  seemed  timid  in  her 
public  demonstrations  ;  it  was  as  if  she  felt  when  she 
was  under  the  eye  of  others  that  by  some  sign  or 
look  she  might  betray  her  secret. 

Mary  found  Barry  down-stairs  in  the  little  office, 
his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  Dear  bo}',"  she  said,  and  touched  his  bright 
hair  with  hesitating  fingers. 

He  reached  up  and  caught  her  hand. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  brokenly,  **  what's  the  use?  I 
began  wrong — and  I  guess  I'll  go  on  wrong  to  the 
end." 

236 


A  LONG  ENVELOPE 

And  now  she  spoke  with  earnestness,  both  hands 
on  his  shoulders. 

"  Oh,  Barry,  boy — if  you  fight,  fight  with  all  your 
weapons.  And  don't  let  the  wrong  thoughts  go  on 
molding  you  into  the  wrong  thing.  If  you  think 
you  are  going  to  fail,  you'll  fail.  But  if  you  think 
of  yourself  as  conquering,  triumphant — if  you  think 
of  yourself  as  coming  back  to  Leila,  victorious,  why 
you'll  come  that  way  ;  you'll  come  strong  and  radiant, 
a  man  among  men,  Barry." 

It  was  this  convincing  optimism  of  Mary  Ballard's 
which  brought  to  weaker  natures  a  sense  of  actual 
achievement.  To  hear  Mary  say,  "  You  can  do  it," 
was  to  believe  in  one's  own  powers.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  Barry  felt  it.  Hitherto,  Mary  had 
seemed  rather  worrying  when  it  came  to  rules  of 
conduct — rather  unreasonable  in  her  demands  upon 
him.  But  now  he  was  caught  up  on  the  wings  of 
her  belief  in  him. 

*•  Do  you  think  I  can  ? "  a  light  had  leaped  into 
his  tired  eyes. 

"  I  know  you  can,  dear  boy,"  she  bent  and  kissed 
him. 

"  You'll  take  care  of  Leila,"  he  begged,  and  then, 
very  low,  *'  I'm  afraid  I've  made  an  awful  mess  of 
things,  Mary." 

*•  You  mustn't  think  of  that — ^just  think,  Barry — of 
the  day  when  you  come  back  I  How  all  the  wedding 
bells  will  ring  1 " 

237 


CONTRART  MART 

But  he  thought  of  a  wedding  where  there  had  been 
no  bells.  He  thought  of  Little-Lovely  Leila  in  her 
yellow  gown  on  the  night  of  the  mad  March  moon. 

"  You'll  take  care  of  her,"  he  said  again,  and  Mary 
promised. 

And  now  the  Bishop  arrived,  and  certain  old 
friends  of  the  family.  As  Barry  and  Mary  made  their 
way  up-stairs,  they  met  Susan  with  the  mail.  There 
was  one  long  letter  for  Mary,  which  she  tore  open 
with  eagerness,  glanced  at  it,  and  tucked  it  into  her 
girdle,  then  went  on  with  winged  feet. 

Porter,  glancing  at  her  as  she  came  in,  was  struck 
by  the  radiance  of  her  aspect.  How  lovely  she  was 
with  that  flush  on  her  cheek,  and  with  her  sweet 
shining  eyes  I 

With  due  formality  and  with  the  proper  number 
of  godfathers  and  godmothers,  little  Mary-Constance 
Ballard  Richardson  was  ofificially  named. 

During  the  ceremony,  Leila  sat  by  her  father's 
side,  her  hand  in  his.  In  these  days  the  child  clung 
to  the  strong  old  soldier.  When  she  had  come 
back  to  consciousness  on  the  night  that  she  had 
fainted  on  the  threshold  of  the  library,  he  had  asked, 
"  My  darling,  what  is  it  ?  " 

And  she  had  cried,  "Oh,  Dad,  Dad,"  and  had 
wept  in  his  arms.  But  she  had  not  told  him  that  she 
was  Barry's  wife.  It  was  because  of  Barry's  going, 
she  had  admitted ;  it  seemed  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

238 


A  LONG  ENVELOPE 

The  General  talked  the  situation  over  with  Mary. 
^*  How  will  she  stand  it,  when  he  is  really  gone  ?" 

"It  will  be  better  when  the  parting  is  over,  and 
she  settles  down  to  other  things." 

Yet  that  day,  after  the  christening,  Mary  wondered 
if  what  she  had  said  was  true.  What  would  life 
hold  for  Leila  when  Barry  was  gone  ? 

Her  own  life  without  Roger  Poole  was  blank. 
Reluctantly,  she  was  forced  to  admit  it.  Constance, 
the  baby,  Porter,  these  were  the  shadows,  Roger  was 
the  substance. 

The  letters  which  had  passed  between  them  had 
shown  her  depths  in  him  which  had  hitherto  been 
unrevealed.  Comparing  him  with  Porter  Bigelow, 
she  realized  that  Porter  could  never  say  the  things 
which  Roger  said  ;  he  could  not  think  them. 

And  while  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  Roger  was  a 
defeated  man,  and  Porter  a  successful  one,  yet  there 
was  this  to  think  of,  that  Porter's  qualities  were 
negative  rather  than  positive.  With  all  of  his  op- 
portunities, he  was  narrowing  his  life  to  the  pursuit 
of  pleasure  and  his  love  for  her.  Roger  had  shirked 
responsibility  toward  his  fellow  man  by  withdrawal ; 
Porter  was  shirking  by  indifference. 

So  she  found  herself,  as  many  another  woman  has 
tound  herself,  fighting  the  battle  of  the  less  fortunate^ 
Roger  wanted  her,  yet  pressed  no  claim.  Porter 
wanted  her  and  meant  to  have  her. 

He  had  shown  of  late  his  impatience  at  the 
239 


CONTRART  MART 

restraint  which  she  had  put  upon  him.  He  had 
encroached  more  and  more  upon  her  time^ — de- 
manded more  and  more.  He  had  been  kept  from 
saying  the  things  which  she  did  not  want  him  to  say 
only  by  the  fact  that  she  would  not  listen. 

She  knew  that  he  was  expecting  things  which 
could  never  be — and  that  by  her  silence  she  was 
giving  sanction  to  his  expectations.  Yet  she  found 
herself  dreading  to  say  the  final  word  which  would 
send  him  from  her. 

The  friendship  between  a  man  and  a  woman  has 
this  poignant  quality — it  has  no  assurance  of  perma- 
nence. For,  if  either  marries,  the  other  must  suffer 
loss ;  if  either  loves,  the  other  must  put  away  that 
which  may  have  become  a  prized  association.  As 
her  friend,  Mary  valued  Porter  highly.  She  had 
known  him  all  her  life.  Yet  she  was  aware  that  she 
was  taking  all  and  returning  nothing ;  and  surely 
Porter  had  the  right  to  ask  of  life  something  more 
than  that. 

She  sighed,  and  going  to  her  desk,  took  out  of  it 
the  letter  which  she  had  received  in  the  morning  mail. 

She  knew  that  the  moment  that  she  announced 
the  contents  of  that  letter  would  be  a  dramatic  one. 
Even  if  she  did  it  quietly,  it  would  have  the  effect  of 
a  bomb  thrown  into  the  midst  of  a  peaceful  circle. 
She  had  a  fancy  that  it  would  be  best  to  tell  Porter 
first.  He  was  to  come  back  to  dinner,  so  she  dressed 
and  went  down  early. 

240 


YOU    DON  T    KNOW     WHAT    YOU    ARE    DOING 


'jf'km 


A  LONG  ENVELOPE 

He  found  her  in  the  garden.  There  were  double 
rows  of  hyacinths  in  the  paths  now,  with  tulips  com- 
ing up  between,  and  beyond  the  fountain  was  an 
amethyst  sky  where  the  young  moon  showed. 

She  rose  to  greet  him,  her  hands  full  of  fragrant 
blossoms. 

He  held  her  hand  tightly.  "How  happy  you 
look,  Mary." 

"  I  am  happy." 

"  Because  I'm  here  ?  If  you  could  only  say  that 
once  truthfully." 

"  It  is  always  good  to  have  you." 

"  But  you  won't  tell  a  lie,  and  say  you're  happier 
because  of  my  coming?     Oh,  Contrary  Mary  !  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  If  I  said  nice  things  to 
you,  you'd  misunderstand." 

"  Perhaps.     But  why  this  radiance  ?  " 

"Good  news." 

"  From  whom  ?  " 

"  A  man." 

"  What  man  ?  "  with  rising  jealousy. 

"  One  who  has  given  me  the  thing  I  want." 

He  was  plainly  puzzled. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.' 

"  A  letter  came  this  morning — a  lovely  letter  in  3 
long  envelope." 

She  took  a  paper  out  of  a  magazine  which  lay 
on  the  stone  bench  by  her  side.  "  Read  that,''  she 
said. 

241 


CONTRART  MART 

He  read  and  his  face  went  perfectly  white,  so  that 
it  showed  chalkily  beneath  his  red  hair. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  what  have  you  done  this  for  ? 
You  know  I'm  not  going  to  let  you." 

"  You  haven't  anything  to  do  with  it." 

"  But  I  have.  It  is  ridiculous.  You  don't  know 
what  you  are  doing.  You've  never  been  tied  to  an 
office  desk — you've  never  fought  and  struggled  with 
the  world." 

"  Neither  have  you,  Porter." 

"Well,  if  I  haven't,  is  it  my  fault?"  he  demanded. 
"I  was  born  into  the  world  with  this  millstone  of 
money  around  my  neck,  and  a  red  head.  Dad  sent 
me  to  school  and  to  college,  and  he  set  me  up  in 
business.  There  wasn't  anything  left  for  me  to  do 
but  to  keep  straight,  and  I've  done  that  for  you." 

"  I  know,"  she  was  very  sweet  as  she  leaned 
toward  him,  "but.  Porter,  sometimes,  lately,  I've 
wondered  if  that's  all  that  is  expected  of  us." 

"  All  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

*'  Aren't  we  expected  to  do  something  for  others  ?  '* 

"  What  others  ?  " 

She  wanted  to  tell  him  about  Roger  Poole  and  the 
boy  in  the  pines.  Her  eyes  glowed.  But  her  lips 
were  silent. 

"  What  others,  Mary  ?  " 

"The  people  who  aren't  as  fortunate  as  we 
are." 

"  What  people  ?  " 

242 


A  LONG  ENVELOPE 

Mary  was  somewhat  vague.  "The  people  who 
need  us — to  help." 

"  Marry  me.  and  you  can  be  Lady  Bountiful — 
dispensing  charity.'* 

*•  It  isn't  exactly  charity."  She  had  again  the 
vision  of  Roger  Poole  and  the  boy.  "  People  don't 
just  want  our  money — they  want  us  to — understand." 

He  was  not  following  her.  "  To  think  that  you 
should  want  to  go  out  in  the  world — to  work.  Tell 
me  why  you  are  doing  it." 

"  Because  I  need  an  outlet  for  my  energies — the 
girl  of  limited  income  in  these  days  is  as  ineffective 
as  a  jellyfish,  if  she  hasn't  some  occupation." 

"You  could  never  be  a  jellyfish.  Mary,  listen, 
listen.  I  need  you,  dear.  I've  kept  still  for  a  year 
—Mary!" 

"  Porter,  I  can't." 

And  now  he  asked  a  question  which  had  smoul- 
dered long  in  his  breast      \ 

"  Is  there  any  one  else  ?  " 

Was  there?  Her  thoughts  leaped  at  once  to 
Roger.  What  did  he  mean  to  her?  What  could 
he  ever  mean  ?  He  had  said  himself  that  he  could 
expect  nothing.  Perhaps  he  had  meant  that  she 
must  expect  nothing. 

"  Mary,  is  it — Roger  Poole  ?  " 

Her  eyes  came  up  to  meet  his ;  they  were  like 
stars.     "  Porter,  I  don't — know." 

He  took  the  blow  in  silence.    The  shadows  were 

243 


CONTRART  MART 

on  them  now.  In  all  the  beauty  of  the  May  twi- 
light, the  little  bronze  boy  grinned  at  love  and  at  life. 

"  Has  he  asked  you,  Mary  ?  " 

"  No.  I'm  not  sure  that  he  wants  to  marry  me — 
I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  to  marry  him — I  only  know 
that  he  is  different."  It  was  like  Mary  to  put  it 
thus,  frankly. 

"No  man  could  know  you  without  wanting  to 
marry  you.  But  what  has  he  to  offer  you — oh,  it  is 
preposterous." 

She  faced  him,  flaming.  '*  It  isn't  preposterous, 
Porter.  What  has  any  man  to  offer  any  woman  ex- 
cept his  love  ?  Oh,  I  know  you  men — you  think  be- 
cause you  have  money — but  if — if — both  of  you 
loved  me — you'd  stand  before  me  on  your  merits  as 
men — there  would  be  nothing  else  in  it  for  me  but 
that." 

"  I  know.  And  I'm  willing  to  stand  on  my 
merits."  The  temper  which  belonged  to  Porter's  red 
head  was  asserting  itself.  "  I'm  willing  to  stand  on 
my  merits.  I  offer  you  a  past  which  is  clean — a  fu- 
ture of  devotion.  It's  worth  something,  Mary — in 
the  years  to  come  when  you  know  more  of  men, 
you'll  understand  that  it  is  worth  something." 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  her  hand  on  his,  "  it  is  worth 
a  great  deal.  But  I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody." 
It  was  the  old  cry  reiterated.  "  I  want:  to  live  the 
life  I  have  planned  for  a  little  while — then  if  Love 
claims  me,  it  must  be  love — not  just  a  comf citable 

244 


A  LONG  ENVELOPE 

getting  a  home  for  myself  along  the  lines  of  least  re- 
sistance. I  want  to  work  and  earn,  and  know  that 
I  can  do  it.  If  I  were  to  marry  you,  it  would  be  just 
because  I  couldn't  see  any  other  way  out  of  my 
difficulties,  and  you  wouldn't  want  me  that  way> 
Porter." 

He  did  want  her.  But  he  recognized  the  futility 
of  wanting  her.  For  a  little  while,  at  least,  he  must 
let  her  have  her  way.  Indeed,  she  would  have  it, 
whether  he  let  her  or  not.  But  Roger  Poole  should 
not  have  her.  He  should  not.  All  that  was  primi- 
tive in  Porter  rose  to  combat  the  claims  which  she 
made  for  his  rival. 

"  I  knew  there' d  be  trouble  when  you  let  the 
Tower  Rooms,"  he  said  heavily  at  last ;  "  a  man  like 
that  always  appeals  to  a  girl's  sense  of  romance." 

The  Tower  Rooms !  Mary  saw  Roger  as  he  had 
stood  in  them  for  the  first  time  amid  all  the  confusion 
of  Constance's  flight  from  the  home  nest.  That 
night  he  had  seemed  to  her  merely  a  person  who 
would  pay  the  rent — yet  the  money  which  she  had 
received  from  him  had  been  the  smallest  part. 

She  drifted  away  on  the  tide  of  her  dreams,  and 
Porter  felt  sharply  the  sense  of  her  utter  detachment 
from  him. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  tensely,  "Mary,  oh,  my  little 
Contrary  Mary — you  aren't  going  to  slip  out  of  my 
life.     Say  that  you  won't." 

"  I'm   not    slipping  away   from  you,"   she  said, 

245 


CONTRARY  MART 

••any  more  than  I  am  slipping  away  from  my  old 
self.  I  don't  understand  it,  Porter.  I  only  know 
that  what  you  call  contrariness  is  a  force  within  me 
which  I  can't  control.  I  wish  that  I  could  do  the 
things  which  you  want  me  to  do,  I  wish  I  could  be 
what  Gordon  and  Constance  and  Barry  and  even 
Aunt  Frances  want — but  there's  something  which 
carries  me  on  and  on,  and  seems  to  say,  '  There's 
more  than  this  in  the  world  for  you ' — and  with  that 
call  in  my  ears,  I  have  to  follow." 

He  rose,  and  his  head  was  up.  "  All  my  life,  1 
have  wanted  just  one  thing  which  has  been  denied 
me — ^and  that  one  thing  is  ^  you.  And  no  other 
man  shall  take  you  from  me.  1  suppose  I've  got  to 
set  myself  another  season  of  patience.  But  I  can 
wait,  because  in  the  end  I  shall  get  what  I  want — - 
remember  that,  Mary." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure,  Porter" 

"  I  am  so  sure,"  lifting  the  hand  which  was 
weighted  with  the  heavy  ring,  "  I  am  so  sure,  that 
I  will  make  a  wager  with  fortune,  that  the  day  will 
come  when  this  ring  shall  be  our  betrothal  ring, 
I'll  give  you  others,  Mary,  but  this  shall  be  the  one 
which  shall  bind  you  to  me." 

She  snatched  her  hand  away.  "  You  speak  as  if 
you  were — sure,"  she  said. 

*'  I  am.  I'm  going  to  let  you  work  and  do  as  you 
please  for  a  little  while,  if  you  must.  But  in  the 
end  I'm  going  to  marry  you,  Mary," 

246 


A  LONG  ENVELOPE 

At  dinner  Mary  announced  the  contents  of  her 
letter  in  the  long  envelope.  **  I  have  received  my 
appointment  as  stenographer  in  the  Treasury,  and 
I'm  to  report  for  duty  on  the  twentieth." 

It  was  Aunt  Frances  who  recovered  first  from  the 
shock.     "  Well,  if  you  were  my  child " 

Grace,  with  little  points  of  light  in  her  eyes,  spoke 
smoothly.  "  If  Mary  were  your  child,  she  would  be 
as  dutiful  as  I  am,  mother.  But  you  see  she  isn't 
your  child." 

Aunt  Frances  snorted — "  Dutiful." 

Gordon  was  glowering.     "  It  is  rank  foolishness." 

Mary  flared.  *'  That's  your  point  of  view,  Gor- 
don. You  judge  me  by  Constance.  But  Constance 
has  always  been  feminine  and  sweet — and  I've  never 
been  particularly  feminine,  nor  particularly  sweet." 

Barry  followed  up  her  defense.  *'  I  guess  Mary 
knows  how  to  take  care  of  herself,  Gordon." 

"  No  woman  knows  how  to  take  care  of  herself," 
Gordon  was  obstinate,  "  when  it  comes  to  the  fight 
with  economic  conditions.  I  should  hate  to  think  of 
Constance  trying  to  earn  a  living." 

"  Gordon,  dear,"  Constance's  voice  appealed,  "  I 
couldn't — but  Mary  can — only  I  hate  to  see  her  do  it." 

"  I  don't,"  said  Grace,  stoutly.    "  I  envy  her." 

Aunt  Frances  fixed  her  daughter  with  a  stern  eye. 
*'  Don't  encourage  her  in  her  foolishness,  Grace," 
she  said  ;  "  each  of  you  should  mairy  and  settle 
down  with  some  nice  man." 

247 


CONTRART  MART 

"  But  what  man,  mother  ?  "  Grace,  leaning  for- 
waid,  put  the  question,  with  an  irritating  air  of 
doubt. 

"  There  are  a  half  dozen  of  them  waiting." 

"  Nice  boys  I  But  a  man.  Find  me  one,  mother, 
and  I'll  marry  him." 

"  The  trouble  with  you  and  Mary,"  Porter  informed 
her,  •'  is  that  you  don't  want  a  man.  You  want  a 
hero." 

Grace  nodded.  "  With  a  helmet  and  plume,  and 
riding  on  a  steed — that's  my  dream — but  mother  re- 
fuses to  let  me  wander  in  Arcady  where  such  knights 
are  found." 

"  I  think,"  Constance  ren^arked  happily,  "  that  now 
and  then  they  are  found  in  every-day  life,  only  you 
and  Mary  won't  recognize  them." 

From  the  other  side  her  husband  smiled  at  her, 
"She  thinks  I'm  one,"  he  said,  and  his  fine  young 
face  was  suffused  by  faint  color.  "  She  thinks  I'm 
one.     I  hope  none  of  you  will  ever  undeceive  her." 

Under  the  table  Leila's  little  hand  was  slipped  into 
Barry's  big  one.  She  could  not  proclaim  to  the 
world  that  sh^  had  found  her  knight,  and  loved  him. 

Aunt  Frances,  very  stiff  and  straight  in  her  jetted 
dinner  gown,  resumed,  "  I  wish  it  were  possible  to 
give  girls  a  dose  of  common  sense,  as  you  give  them 
cough  syrup." 

''Mother/" 

But  Aunt  Frances,  mounted  on  her  grievance,  rodo 

24» 


A  LONG  ENVELOPE 

it  through  the  salad  course.  She  had  wanted  Grace 
to  marry — her  beauty  and  her  family  had  entitled  her 
to  an  excellent  match.  But  Grace  was  single  still, 
holding  her  own  against  all  her  mother's  arguments, 
maintaining  in  this  one  thing  her  right  to  independ- 
ent action. 

Isabelle,  straining  her  ears  to  hear  what  it  was  all 
about,  asked  Mary,  late  that  night,  "  What  upset 
Frances  at  dinner  ?  " 

Mary  told  her. 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  wrong,  Aunt  Isabelle  ? "  she 
asked. 

The  gentle  lady  sighed.  "  If  you  feel  that  it  is 
right,  it  must  be  right  for  you.  But  you're  trying  to 
be  all  head,  dear  child.  And  there's  your  heart  to 
reckon  with." 

Mary  flushed  "  I  know.  But  I  don't  want  my 
heart  to  speak — yet." 

Aunt  Isabelle  patted  her  hand.  "  I  think  it  has — 
spoken,"  she  said  sofdy. 

Mary  clung  to  her.     "  How  did  you  know?" 

"  We  who  have  dull  ears  have  often  clear  eyes — ^it 
Is  one  of  our  compensations,  Mary." 


249 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Tn  Which  an  Artist  Fields  What  All  His  Life  He  Has 
Been  Looking  For ;  and  in  Which  He  Speaks  of 
a  Little  Saint  in  Red. 

IT  might  have  been  by  chance  that  Delilah  Jeliffe 
driving  in  her  electric  through  a  broad  avenue 
on  the  afternoon  following  the  christening  of  Con- 
stance's baby,  met  Porter  Bigelow,  and  invited  him 
to  go  home  with  her  for  a  cup  of  tea. 

There  were  certain  things  which  Delilah  wanted 
of  Porter.  Perhaps  she  wanted  more  than  she  would 
ever  get.  But  to-day  she  had  it  in  her  mind  to  find 
out  if  he  would  go  with  her  to  the  White  House  gar- 
den party. 

Colin  Quale  was  little  and  blond.  Because  of  his 
genius,  his  presence  had  added  distinction  to  her  en- 
trances and  exits.  But  at  the  coming  function,  she 
knew  that  she  needed  more  than  the  prestige  of 
genius — among  the  group  of  distinguished  guests 
who  would  attend,  the  initial  impression  would  mean 
much.  Porter's  almost  stiff  stateliness  would  match 
the  gown  she  was  to  wear.  His  position,  socially, 
was  impregnable ;  he  had  wealth,  and  youth,  and 
charm.     He  would,  in  other  words,  make  a  perfecdy 

250 


A  LITTLE  SAINT  IN  RED 

correct  background  for  the  picture  which  she  de- 
signed to  make  of  herself. 

The  old  house  at  Georgetown,  to  which  they  came 
finally,  was  set  back  among  certain  blossoming 
shrubs  and  bushes.  A  row  of  tulips  flamed  on  each 
side  of  the  walk.  Small  and  formal  cedars  pointed 
their  spired  heads  toward  the  spring  sky. 

In  the  door,  as  they  ascended  the  steps,  appeared 
Colin  Quale. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  "  come  in  at  once.  I  want 
you  to  see  what  I  have  done  for  you." 

He  spoke  directly  to  Delilah.  It  was  doubtful  if 
he  saw  Porter.  He  was  blind  to  everything  except 
the  fact  that  his  genius  had  designed  for  Delilah 
Jeliffe  a  costume  which  would  make  her  fame  and 
his. 

They  followed  him  through  the  wide  hall  to  the 
back  porch  in  which  he  had  set  up  his  easel.  There, 
where  a  flowering  almond  bush  flung  its  branches 
against  a  background  of  green,  he  had  worked  out 
his  idea. 

A  water-color  sketch  on  the  easel  showed  a  girl  in 
white — a  girl  who  might  have  been  a  queen  or  an 
empress.  Her  gown  partook  of  the  prevailing  mode, 
but  not  slavishly.  There  was  distinction  in  it,  and 
color  here  and  there,  which  Colin  explained. 

'•  It  must  be  of  sheer  white,  with  many  flowing 
flounces,  and  with  faint  pink  underneath  like  the 
almond  bloom.     And  there  must  be  a  bit  of  heavenly 

251 


CONTRART  MART 

blue  in  the  hat,  and  a  knot  of  green  at  the  girdle — 
and  a  veil  flung  back — you  see  ? — there'll  be  sky  and 
field  and  flowers  and  a  white  cloud — all  the  delicate 
color  and  bloom " 

Still  explaining,  he  was  at  last  induced  to  leave 
the  picture,  and  have  tea.  While  Delilah  poured. 
Porter  watched  the  two,  interested  and  diverted  by 
enthusiasms  which  seemed  to  him  somewhat  puerile 
for  a  man  who  could  do  real  things  in  the  world  of 
art. 

Yet  he  saw  that  Delilah  took  the  litde  man  very 
seriously,  that  she  hung  on  his  words  of  advice,  and 
that  she  was  obedient  to  his  demands  upon  her. 

"  She'll  marry  him  some  day,"  he  said  to  himself, 
and  Delilah  seemed  to  divine  his  thought,  for  v;hen 
at  last  Colin  had  rushed  back  to  his  sketch,  she  set- 
tled herself  in  her  low  chair,  and  told  Porter  of  their 
first  meeting. 

"  I'll  begm  at  the  beginning,"  she  said  ;  "  it  is  al- 
most too  funny  to  be  true,  and  it  could  not  possibly 
have  happened  to  any  one  but  me  and  Colin, 

"  It  was  last  summer  when  I  was  on  the  North 
Shore  Father  and  I  stayed  at  a  big  hotel,  but  I 
was  crazy  to  get  acquainted  with  the  cottage 
colony. 

"  But  somehow  I  didn't  seem  to  make  good — you 
see  that  was  in  my  crude  days  when  I  wanted  to  be 
a  cubist  picture  instead  of  a  daguerreotype.  I  liked 
to  be  startling,  and  thought  that  to  attract  attentior 

252 


A  LITTLE  SAINT  IN  RED 

was  to  attract  friends — but  I  found  that  I  did  not  at- 
tract them. 

"  One  night  in  August  there  was  a  big  dance  on 
at  one  of  the  hotels,  and  I  wanted  a  gown  which 
should  outshine  all  the  others — the  ball  was  to  be 
given  for  the  benefit  of  a  local  charity,  and  all  the 
cottage  colony  would  attend.  I  sent  an  order  for  a 
gown  to  my  dressmaker,  and  she  shipped  out  a 
strange  and  wonderful  creation.  It  was  an  im- 
ported affair — you  know  the  kind — with  a  bodice  of 
a  string  of  jet  and  a  wisp  of  lace — with  a  tulle  tunic, 
and  a  skirt  of  gold  brocade  that  was  so  tight  about 
my  feet  that  it  had  the  effect  of  Turkish  trousers. 
For  my  head  she  sent  a  strip  of  gold  gauze  which 
was  to  be  swathed  around  and  around  my  hair  in  a 
sort  of  nun's  coif,  so  that  only  a  littie  knot  could 
show  at  the  back  and  practically  none  in  front.  It 
was  the  last  cry  in  fashions.  It  made  me  look  like 
a  dream  from  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  I  liked  it." 

She  laughed,  and,  in  spite  of  himself.  Porter 
laughed  with  her. 

'I  wore  it  to  the  dance,  and  it  was  there  that  I 
met  Colin  Quale.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  see  the 
scene — the  great  ballroom,  and  all  the  other  women 
staring  at  me  as  I  came  in — and  the  men,  smiling. 

•'  1  was  in  my  element.  I  thought,  in  those  days, 
that  the  test  of  charm  was  to  hold  the  eyes  of  the 
multitude.  To-day  I  know  that  it  is  to  hold  the  eyes 
of  the  elect,  and  it  is  Colin  who  has  taught  me. 

253 


CONTRART  MART 

"  I  had  danced  with  a  dozen  other  men  when  he 
came  up  to  claim  me.  I  scarcely  remembered  that  I 
had  promised  him  a  dance.  When  he  was  presented 
to  me  I  had  only  been  aware  of  a  pale  little  man 
with  eye-glasses  and  nervous  hands  who  had  stared 
at  me  rather  too  steadily. 

"  We  danced  in  silence  for  several  minutes  and  he 
danced  divinely. 

"  He  stopped  suddenly.  '  Let's  get  out  of  here,' 
he  said.     *  I  want  to  talk  to  you.' 

"  I  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  '  But  I  want  to 
dance.' 

"  *  You  can  always  dance,'  he  said,  quietly,  '  but 
you  cannot  always  talk  to  me.' 

**  There  was  nothing  in  his  manner  to  indicate  the 
preliminaries  of  a  flirtation.  He  was  perfectly  seri- 
ous and  he  evidently  thought  that  he  was  offering 
me  a  privilege.  Curiosity  made  me  follow  him, 
and  he  led  the  way  down  the  hall  to  a  secluded  re- 
ception room  where  there  was  a  long  mirror,  a  littie 
table,  and  a  big  bunch  of  old-fashioned  roses  in  a  bowl. 

"  On  our  way  we  passed  a  row  of  chairs,  where 
some  one  had  left  a  wrap  and  a  scarf.  Colin 
snatched  up  the  scarf — it  was  a  long  wide  one  of 
white  chiffon.  The  next  morning  I  returned  it  to 
him,  and  he  found  the  owner.  I  am  not  sure  what 
explanation  he  made  for  his  theft,  but  it  was  un 
doubtedly  attributed  to  the  eccentricities  of  genius  ! 

"  Well,  when,  as  I  said,  we  reached  the  little  room, 

254 


A  LITTLE  SAINT  IN  RED 

he  pulled  a  chair  forward  for  me,  so  that  I  sat  di- 
rectly in  front  of  the  mirror. 

"  I  remember  that  I  surveyed  myself  compla- 
cently. To  my  deluded  eyes,  my  appearance  could 
not  be  improved.  My  head,  swathed  in  its  golden 
coif,  seemed  to  give  the  final  perfect  touch." 

She  laughed  again  at  the  memory,  and  Porter 
found  himself  immensely  amused.  She  had  such  a 
cool  way  of  turning  her  mental  processes  inside  out 
and  holding  them  up  for  others  to  see. 

"  As  I  sat  there,  stealing  glances  at  myself,  I  be» 
came  conscious  that  my  little  blond  man  was  study- 
ing me.  Other  men  had  looked  at  me,  but  never 
with  such  a  cold,  calculating  gaze — and  when  he 
spoke  to  me,  I  nearly  jumped  out  of  my  shoes — his 
voice  was  crisp,  incisive. 

"  *  Take  it  off,*  he  said,  and  touched  the  gauze 
that  tied  up  my  head. 

"  I  gasped.  Then  I  drew  myself  up  in  an  attempt 
at  haughtiness.     But  he  wasn't  impressed  a  bit. 

"  '  I  suppose  you  know  that  I  am  an  artist,  Miss 
Jeliffe/  he  said,  'and  from  the  moment  you  came 
into  the  room,  I  haven't  had  a  bit  of  peace.  You're 
spoiling  your  type — ^and  it  affects  me  as  a  chromo 
would,  or  a  crude  crayon  portrait,  or  any  other  dread- 
ful thing,* 

"  Do  you  know  how  it  feels  to  be  called  a  *  dread- 
ful thing  *  by  a  man  like  that  ?  Well,  it  simply  made 
me  shrivel  up  and  have  shivers  down  my  spine 

255 


CONTRART  MART 

**  *  But  why  ? '  I  stammered. 

" '  Women  like  you,'  he  said,  *  belong  to  the 
stately,  the  aristocratic  type.  You  can  be  ^.grande 
dame  or  a  duchess — and  you  are  making  of  yourself 
— what?  A  soubrette,  with  your  tango  skirt  and 
your  strapped  slippers,  and  your  hideous  head-dress 
—take  it  off.' 

"  *  But  I  can't  take  it  off,'  I  said,  almost  tearfully  ; 
'my  hair  underneath  is — awful.' 

"  '  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  about  your  hair 
underneath — it  can't  be  worse  than  it  is,'  he  roared. 
'  I  want  to  see  your  coloring — take  it  off.' 

**  And  I  took  it  off.  My  hair  was  perfectly  flat, 
and  as  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  myself  in  the  mirror,  I 
wanted  to  laugh,  to  shriek.  But  Colin  Quale  was  as 
solemn  as  an  owl.  '  Ah,'  he  said,  '  I  knew  you  had 
a  lot  of  it  I ' 

"  He  caught  up  the  scarf  which  he  had  borrowed 
and  flung  it  over  my  shoulders.  He  gave  a  flick  of 
bis  fingers  against  my  forehead  and  pulled  down  a 
few  hairs  and  parted  them.  He  whisked  a  little 
table  in  front  of  me,  and  thrust  the  bunch  of  roses 
into  my  arms. 

*^  *  Now  look  at  yourself,'  he  commanded. 

••  I  looked  and  looked  again.  I  had  never  dreamed 
that  I  could  be  like  that.  The  scarf  and  the  table 
hid  every  bit  of  that  Paris  gown,  and  showed  just  a 
bit  of  white  throat.  My  plain  parted  hair  and  the 
roses — I   looked,"   and  now   Delilah   was  blushing 

256 


A  LITTLE  SAINT  IN  RED 

faintly,  "  I  looked  as  I  had  always  wanted  to  look — 
like  the  lovely  ladies  in  the  old  English  portraits. 

"  '  Do  you  like  it  ? '  Colin  asked. 

"  He  knew  that  I  liked  it  from  my  eyes,  and  for 
the  first  time  since  I  had  met  him,  he  laughed. 

"  *  All  my  life,'  he  said,  *  I  have  been  looking  for 
just  such  a  woman  as  you.  A  woman  to  make  over 
— to  develop.  We  must  be  friends.  Miss  Jeliffe. 
You  must  let  me  know  where  I  can  see  you  again.* 

"  Well,  I  didn't  dance  any  more  that  night.  I 
wrapped  the  scarf  about  my  head,  and  went  back  to 
my  hotel.  Colin  Quale  went  with  me.  All  the  way 
he  talked  about  the  sacredness  of  beauty.  He 
opened  my  eyes.  I  began  to  see  that  loveliness 
should  be  suggested  rather  than  emphasized.  And 
I  have  told  you  this  because  I  want  you  to  under- 
stand about  Colin.  He  isn't  in  love  with  me.  I 
rather  fancy  that  back  home  in  Amesbury  or  New- 
buryport,  or  whatever  town  it  is  that  he  hails  from, 
there's  somebody  whom  he'll  find  to  marry.  To  him 
I  am  a  statue  to  be  molded.  I  am  clay,  marble,  a 
tube  of  paint  a  canvas  ready  for  his  brush.  It  was 
the  same  way  with  this  old  house.  He  wanted  a 
setting  for  me,  and  he  couldn't  rest  until  he  had 
found  it.  He  has  not  only  changed  my  atmosphere, 
he  has  changed  my  manner — 1  was  going  to  say 
my  morals — he  brings  to  me  portraits  of  Romney 
ladies  and  Gainsborough  ladies — until  I  seem  posi- 
tively to  swim  in  a  sea  of  stateliness.     And  what 

257 


CONTRART  MART 

i  said  just  now  about  manners  and  morals  is 
true.  A  woman  lives  up  to  the  clothes  she  wears. 
If  you  think  this  change  is  on  the  surface,  it 
isn't.  I  couldn't  talk  slang  in  a  Gainsborough 
hat,  and  be  in  keeping,  so  I  don't  talk  slang  ;  and  a 
perfect  lady  in  a  moleskin  mantle  must  have  morals 
to  match;  so  in  my  little  mantle  I  cannot  tell  a 
lie." 

To  see  her  with  lowered  lashes,  telling  it,  was 
the  funniest  thing  in  the  world,  and  Porter  shouted. 
Then  her  lashes  were,  for  a  moment,  raised,  and  the 
old  Delilah  peeped  out,  shrewd,  impish. 

"  He  wants  me  to  change  my  name.  No,  don't 
misunderstand  me — not  my  last  one.  But  the  first 
He  says  that  Delilah  smacks  of  the  adventuress.  I 
don't  think  he  is  quite  sure  of  the  Bible  story,  but  he 
gets  his  impressions  from  grand  opera — and  he 
knows  that  the  Delilah  of  the  Samson  story  wasn't 
nice — not  in  a  lady-like  sense.  My  middle  name  is 
Anne.     He  likes  that  better." 

"  Lady  Anne  ?  You'll  look  the  part  in  that  garden 
party  frock  he  is  designing  for  you." 

And  now  she  had  reached  the  question  toward 
which  she  had  been  working.     "  Shall  you  go  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  doubt  it.  It  isn't  a  func- 
tion from  which  one  will  be  missed.  And  the 
Ballards  won't  be  there.  Mary  is  going  over  to 
New  York  with  Constance  for  a  few  days  before  the 
sailing.     I'm  to  join  them  on  the  final  day." 

258 


A  LITTLE  SAINT  IN  RED 

"  And  you  won't  go  to  the  garden  party  without 
Mary?" 

•     He  found  himself  moved,  suddenly,  to  speak  out 
to  her. 

"  She  wouldn't  go  if  she  were  here — not  with  me." 

"  Contrary  Mary  ?  "  she  drawled  the  words,  giving 
them  piquant  suggestion. 

"  It  isn't  contrariness.  Her  independence  is  char- 
acteristic. She  won't  let  me  do  things  because  she 
wants  to  do  them  by  herself.  But  some  day  she'll 
let  me  do  them." 

He  said  it  grimly,  and  Delilah  flashed  a  glance  at 
him,  then  said  carefully,  "  It  would  be  a  pity  if  she 
should  fancy — Roger  Poole." 

"  She  won't." 

"  You  can't  tell — pity  leads  to  the  softer  feeling, 
you  know," 

*'  Why  should  she  pity  him  ?  " 

"  There's  his  past." 

*'  His  past  ?  Roger  Poole's  ?  What  do  you  know 
of  It,  Delilah  ?  " 

As  he  leaned  forward  to  ask  the  eager  question, 
he  knew  that  by  all  the  rules  of  the  game  he  should 
not  be  discussing  Mary  with  any  one.  But  he  told 
himself  hotly  that  it  was  for  Mary's  good.  If  things 
had  been  hidden,  they  should  be  revealed — the 
sooner  the  better. 

Delilah  gave  him  the  details  dramatically. 

*'  Then  his  wife  is  dead  ?  " 

259 


CONTRART  MART 

*•  Yes.  But  before  that  the  scandal  lost  him  his 
church.  Nobody  seems  to  know  much  of  it  all,  I 
fancy.     Mary  only  gave  me  the  outline,'' 

"  And  she  knows  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Roger  told  her." 

"*  The  chances  are  that  there's — another  side." 

He  knew  that  it  was  a  small  thing  to  say.  He 
would  not  have  said  it  to  any  one  but  Delilah.  She 
would  not  think  him  small.  To  her  all  things  would 
be  fair  for  a  lover. 

Before  he  went,  that  afternoon,  he  had  promised 
to  go  with  Delilah  to  the  White  House  garden 
party. 

Hence  a  week  later  there  floated  within  the  vision 
of  the  celebrities  and  society  folk,  gathered  together 
on  the  spacious  lawn  of  the  executive  mansion,  a 
lovely  lady  in  faint  rose-white,  with  a  touch  of  heav- 
enly blue  in  her  wide  hat,  from  which  floated  a  veil 
which  half  hid  her  down-drooped  eyes. 

People  began  at  once  to  ask,  "  Who  is  she?" 

When  it  was  discovered  that  her  name  was  Jeliffe, 
and  that  she  was  not  a  distinguished  personage,  it 
did  not  matter  greatly.  There  was  about  her  an  air 
of  distinction — a  certain  quiet  atmosphere  of  with- 
drawal from  the  common  herd  which  had  nothing  in 
it  of  haughtiness,  but  which  seemed  to  set  her  apart. 

Porter,  following  in  her  wake  as  she  swept  across 
the  green,  thought  of  the  girl  in  leopard  skins,  whose 

260 


A  LITTLE  SAINT  IN  RED 

unconventionality  had  shocked  him.  Surely  in  this 
woman  was  developed  a  sense  of  herself  as  the  center 
of  a  picture  which  was  almost  uncanny.  He  found 
himself  contrasting  Mary's  simplicity  and  lack  of 
pose. 

Mary's  presence  here  to-day  would  have  meant 
much  to  a  few  people  who  knew  and  loved  her;  it 
would  have  meant  nothing  to  the  crowd  who  stared 
at  Delilah  Jelifie. 

Colin  Quale  was  there  to  enjoy  the  full  triumph  of 
the  transformation.  He  hovered  at  a  little  distance 
from  Delilah,  worshiping  her  for  the  genius  which 
met  and  matched  his  own. 

"  I  shall  paint  her  in  that,"  he  said  to  Porter.  "It 
will  be  my  masterpiece.  And  if  you  could  have 
seen  her  on  the  night  I  met  her " 

"She  told  me."     Porter  was  smiling. 

"  It  was  like  one  of  the  old  masters  daubed  by  a 
novice,  or  like  a  room  whitewashed  over  rare  carv- 
ings— everything  was  hidden  which  should  have  been 
shown,  and  everything  was  shown  which  should  have 
been  hidden.     It  was  monstrous. 

*'  There  are  few  women,"  he  went  on,  "  whom  I 
could  make  over  as  I  have  made  her  over.  They 
have  not  the  adaptability — the  temperament  There 
was  one  whom  I  could  have  transformed.  But  I  was 
not  allowed.  She  was  little  and  blonde  and  the  wife 
of  a  clergyman  ;  she  looked  like  a  saint — and  she 
should  have  worn  straight  things  of  clear  green  ot 

261 


CONTRART  MART 

red,  or  blue.  But  she  wore  black.  I've  sometimes 
wondered  if  she  was  such  a  saint  as  she  looked. 
There  was  a  divorce  afterward,  I  believe,  and  another 
man.     And  she  died." 

Porter,  listening  idly,  came  back.  ''What  type 
was  she  ?  " 

"Fra  Angelico — to  perfection.  I  should  have 
liked  to  dress  her." 

"  Did  you  ever  tell  her  that  you  wanted  to  do  it  ?  " 

"Yes.  And  she  listened.  It  was  then  that  I 
gained  my  impression — that  she  was  not  a  saint 
One  night  there  was  a  little  entertainment  at  the 
parish  house  and  I  had  my  way.  I  made  of  her  an 
angel,  in  a  red  lobe  with  a  golden  lyre — and  I 
painted  her  afterward.  She  used  to  come  to  my 
studio,  but  I'm  not  sure  that  Poole  liked  it." 

"  Poole  ?  "     Porter  was  tense. 

•'  Her  husband.     He  could  not  make  her  happy." 

"Was  she — the  one  in  fault?" 

Colin  shrugged.  "  There  are  always  two  stories. 
As  I  have  said,  she  looked  like  a  saint." 

"  I  should  like  to  see — the  picture."  Porter  tried 
to  speak  lightly.  "May  I  come  up  some  day  to 
your  rooms?" 

Colin's  face  beamed. 

"I'm  getting  into  new  quarters.  I  shall  want 
your  opinion — call  me  up  before  you  come." 

It  was  Colin  who  went  home  with  Delilah  in  Por- 
ter's car.     Porter  pleaded  important  business,  and 

ie6^ 


A  LITTLE  SAINT  IN  RED 

walked  for  an  hour  around  the  Speedway,  his  brain 
in  a  whirl. 

Then  Mary  knew — Mary  knew — and  it  had  made 
no  difference  in  her  thought  of  Roger  Poole  1 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

in  Which  Mary  Writes  of  the  Workaday  Worlds  and 
in  Which  Roger  Writes  of  the  Dreams  of  a  Boy. 

In  the  Tower  Rooms — -June. 

I  HAVE  been  working  in  the  office  for  a  week, 
and  it  has  been  the  hardest  week  of  my  life.  But 
please  don't  think  that  I  have  any  regrets — it  is  only 
that  the  world  has  been  so  lovely  outside,  and  that  I 
have  been  shut  in. 

I  am  beginning  to  understand  that  the  woman  in 
the  home  has  a  freedom  which  she  doesn't  sufficiently 
value.  She  can  run  down-town  in  the  morning,  or 
slip  out  in  the  afternoon,  or  put  off  until  to-morrow 
something  which  should  have  been  done  to-day. 
But  men  can't  run  out  or  slip  away  or  put  off — no 
♦natter  if  the  sun  is  shining,  or  the  birds  singing, 
or  the  wind  calling,  or  the  open  road  leading  to 
adventure. 

Yet  there  are  compensations,  and  I  am  trying  to 
see  them  I  am  trying  to  live  up  to  my  theories. 
And  I  am  sustained  by  the  thought  that  at  last  I  am 
a  wage-earner — independent  of  any  one — capable  of 
buying  my  own  bread  and  butter,  though  all  mascu* 
line  help  should  fail ! 


THE  WORKADAT  WORLD 

Aunt  Isabelle  is  a  dear,  and  so  is  Susan  Jenks, 
And  that's  another  thing  to  think  about.  What  will 
the  wage-earning  part  of  the  world  do,  when  there 
are  no  home-keepers  left  ?  If  it  were  not  for  Aunt 
Isabelle  and  Susan,  there  wouldn't  be  any  one  to 
trail  after  me  with  cushions  for  my  tired  back,  and 
cold  things  for  me  to  drink  on  hot  days,  and  hot 
things  to  drink  on  cool  days. 

I  begin  to  perceive  faintly  the  masculine  point  of 
view.  If  I  were  a  man  I  should  want  a  wife  for  just 
that — to  toast  my  slippers  before  the  fire  as  they  do 
in  the  old-fashioned  stories,  to  have  my  dinner  pip- 
ing hot,  and  to  smooth  the  wrinkles  out  of  my  fore- 
head. 

That's  why  I'm  not  sure  that  I  should  make  a 
comfortable  sort  of  wife.  I  can't  quite  see  myself 
toasting  the  slippers.  But  I  can  see  Constance  toast- 
ing them,  or  Leila — but  Grace  and  I — you  see,  after 
all,  there  are  home  women  and  the  other  kind,  and 
I  fancy  that  I'm  the  other  kind. 

This,  you'll  understand,  is  a  philosophy  founded 
on  the  vast  experience  of  a  week  in  the  workaday 
world — I'll  l<st  you  know  later  of  any  further  modifi- 
cation of  my  theories. 

Well,  the  house  seems  empty  with  just  the  three 
of  us,  and  Pittiwitz.  I  miss  Constance  beyond 
words,  and  the  beautiful  baby.  Constance  wanted 
to  name  her  for  me,  but  Gordon  insisted  that  she 
should  be  called  after  Constance,  so  they  compro- 

265 


CONTRART  MART 

znised  on  Mary-Constance,  such  a  long  name  for 
such  a  mite. 

We  all  went  to  New  York  to  see  them  off.  By 
"all,"  I  mean  our  crowd — Aunt  Frances  and  Grace, 
Leila  and  the  General — oh,  poor  little  Leila — Delilah 
and  Colin  Quale,  Aunt  Isabelle  and  I,  Susan  Jenks 
with  the  baby  in  her  arms  until  the  very  last  minute 
— and  Porter  Bigelow. 

At  the  boat  Leila  went  all  to  pieces.  I  could 
never  have  believed  that  our  gay  little  Leila  would 
have  taken  anything  so  hard — and  it  was  pitiful  to 
see  Barry.  But  I  can't  talk  about  that — I  can't 
think  about  it. 

Porter  was  dear  to  Leila.  He  treated  her  as  if 
she  were  his  own  little  sister,  and  it  was  lovely.  He 
took  her  right  away  from  the  General,  when  the  ship 
was  leaving  the  dock. 

"  Brace  up,  little  girl,"  he  said  ;  "  he'll  be  back  be- 
fore you  know  it." 

He  literally  carried  her  to  a  taxi  and  put  her  in, 
and  then  began  such  a  day.  We  did  all  of  the  de- 
lightful things  that  one  can  do  in  New  York  on  a 
summer  day,  beginning  with  breakfast  at  a  charm- 
ing inn  on  Long  Island,  and  ending  with  a  roof  gar- 
den at  night.  And  that  night  Leila  was  so  tired 
that  she  went  to  sleep  all  in  a  minute,  like  a  child, 
and  forgot  to  grieve. 

Since  we  came  back  to  Washington,  Porter  has 
kept  it  up,  not  letting  Leila  miss  Barry  any  more 

266 


THE  WORKADAT  WORLD 

than  possible,  and  playing  big  brother  to  per« 
fection. 

It  is  queer  how  we  misjudge  people.  If  any  one 
had  told  me  that  Porter  could  be  so  sweet  and  ten- 
der to  anybody,  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it.  But 
perhaps  Leila  brings  out  that  side  of  him.  Now  I 
am  independent,  and  aggressive,  and  I  make  Porter 
furious,  and  most  of  the  time  we  fight. 

As  I  said,  the  house  seems  empty — but  I  am  not 
in  it  much  now.  If  I  had  not  had  my  work,  I  think 
I  should  have  gone  crazy  That's  why  men  don't 
get  silly  and  hysterical  and  morbid  like  women — 
they  are  saved  by  the  day's  work.  I  simply  have 
to  forget  my  troubles  while  I  transcribe  my  notes  on 
the  typewriter. 

Of  course  you  know  what  life  in  the  Departments 
is  without  my  telling  you.  But  to  me  it  isn't  mon- 
otonous or  machine-like.  I  am  awfully  interested  in 
the  people.  Of  course  my  immediate  work  is  with 
the  nice  old  Chief.  I'm  glad  he  is  old,  and  gray- 
haired.  It  makes  me  feel  comfortable  and  chaper- 
oned. Do  you  know  that  I  believe  the  reason  that 
most  girls  hate  to  go  out  to  work  is  because  of  the 
loss  of  protection.  You  see  we  home  girls  are  al- 
ways in  the  care  of  somebody.  I've  been  more  than 
usually  independent,  but  there  has  always  been  some 
one  to  play  propriety  in  the  background.  When  I 
was  a  tiny  tot  there  was  my  nurse.  Later  at  kinder- 
garten I  was  sent  home  in  a  'bus  with  all  the  other 

267 


CONTRART  MART 

babies,  and  with  a  nice  teacher  to  see  that  we  arrived 
safely.  Then  there  was  motiier  and  father  and 
Barry  and  Constance,  some  of  them  wherever  I  went 
— and  finally,  Aunt  Isabelle. 

But  in  the  ofl&ce,  I  am  not  Mary  Ballard,  Daughter 
of  the  Home.  I  am  Mary  Ballard,  Independent 
Wage-Earner — stenographer  at  a  thousand  a  year. 
There's  nobody  to  stand  between  me  and  the  people 
I  meet.  No  one  to  say,  "  Here  is  my  daughter,  a 
woman  of  refinement  and  breeding  ;  behind  her  I 
stand  ready  to  hold  you  accountable  for  everything 
you  may  do  to  offend  her."  In  the  wage-earning 
world  a  woman  must  stand  for  what  she  is — and  she 
must  set  the  pace.  So  in  the  office  I  find  that  I 
must  have  other  manners  than  those  in  my  home. 
I  can't  meet  men  as  frankly  and  freely.  I  can't 
laugh  with  them  and  talk  with  them  as  I  would  over 
a  cup  of  tea  at  my  own  little  table.  If  you  and  I 
had  met,  for  example,  in  the  office,  I  should  have  put 
up  a  barrier  of  formality  between  us,  and  I  should 
have  said,  '•  Good-morning "  when  I  met  you  and 
"  Good-night "  when  I  left  you,  and  it  would  have 
taken  us  months  to  know  as  much  about  each  other 
as  you  and  I  knew  after  a  week  in  the  same  house. 

I  suppose  if  I  live  here  for  years  and  years,  that  I 
shall  grow  to  look  upon  my  gray-haired  chief  as  a 
sort  of  official  grandfather,  and  my  fellow-clerks  will 
be  brothers  and  sisters  by  adoption,  but  that  will 
take  time. 

268 


THE  WORKADAT  WORLD 

I  wonder  if  I  shall  work  for  "  years  and  years  "  ? 
I  am  not  sure  that  I  should  like  it.  And  there  you 
have  the  woman  of  it.  A  man  knows  that  his  toil 
ing  is  for  life ;  unless  he  grows  rich  and  takes  to  golf. 
But  a  woman  never  looks  ahead  and  says,  "  This 
thing  I  must  do  until  I  die."  She  always  has  a 
sense  of  possible  release. 

I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  am  a  logical  person. 
In  one  breath  I  am  telling  you  that  I  like  my  work, 
and  in  the  next  I  am  saying  that  I  shouldn't  care  to 
do  it  all  my  life.  But  at  least  there's  this  for  it,  that 
just  now  it  is  a  heavenly  diversion  from  the  worries 
which  would  otherwise  have  weighed. 

What  did  you  do  about  lunches  ?  Mine  are  as  yet 
an  unsolved  problem.  I  like  my  luncheon  nicely  set 
forth  on  my  own  mahogany,  with  the  little  scalloped 
linen  doilies  that  we've  always  used.  And  I  want 
my  own  tea  and  bread  and  butter  and  marmalade, 
and  Susan's  hot  little  made-overs.  But  here  I  am 
expected  to  rush  out  with  the  rest,  and  feast  on 
impossible  soups  and  stews  and  sandwiches  in  a 
restaurant  across  the  way.  The  only  alternative  is 
to  bring  my  lunch  in  a  box,  and  eat  it  on  my  desk. 
And  then  I  lose  the  breath  of  fresh  air  which  I  need 
more  than  the  food. 

Oh,  these  June  days  I  Are  they  hot  with  you  ? 
Here  they  are  heavenly  When  the  windows  are 
open,  the  sweet  warm  air  blows  up  from  the  river 
and  across  the  White  Lot,  and  we  get  a  whiff  of 

269 


THE  WORKADAT  WORLD 

the  spices  of  it  may  flow  forth.'  This  you  would 
think  a  great  thing.  And  do  you  not  think  it  a 
greater  thing  that  all  this  you  can  do  for  fairer 
flowers  than  these — flowers  that  have  eyes  like  yours 
and  thoughts  like  yours,  and  lives  like  yours  ;  which, 
once  saved,  you  save  forever. 

"  Will  you  not  go  down  among  them — far  among 
the  moorlands  and  the  rocks — far  in  the  darkness  of 
the  terrible  streets ;  these  feeble  florets  are  lying 
with  all  their  fresh  leaves  torn  and  their  stems 
broken — will  you  never  go  down  to  them,  not  set 
them  in  order  in  their  little  fragrant  beds,  nor  fence 
them  in  their  shuddering  from  the  fierce  wind  ?  " 

There's  a  lot  more  of  it — but  perhaps  you  know 
it.  I  think  I  have  always  done  nice  little  churchly 
things,  and  charitable  things,  but  I  haven't  thought 
as  much,  perhaps,  about  my  fellow  man  and  woman 
as  1  might.  We  come  to  things  slowly  here  in 
Washington.  We  are  conservative,  and  we  have  no 
great  industrial  problems,  no  strikes  and  unions  and 
things  like  that.  Grace  says  that  there  is  plenty 
here  to  reform,  but  the  squalor  doesn't  stick  right 
out  before  your  eyes  as  it  does  in  some  of  the  dread- 
ful tenements  in  the  bigger  cities.  So  we  forget — 
and  I  have  forgotten.  Until  your  letter  came  about 
that  boy  in  the  pines. 

Everything  that  you  tell  me  about  him  is  like  a 
fairy  tale.  I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  see  you  two  in 
that  circle  of  young  pines.     I  can  hear  your  voice 

271 


CONTRART  MART 

roses  from  the  gardens  back  of  the  President's 
house ;  and  when  I  reach  home  at  night,  the  fra- 
grance of  the  roses  in  our  own  garden  meets  me  long 
before  I  can  see  the  house.  We  have  wonderful 
roses  this  year,  and  the  hundred-leaved  bush  back  of 
the  bench  by  the  fountain  is  like  a  rosy  cloud.  I 
made  a  crown  of  them  the  other  day,  and  put  them 
on  the  head  of  the  little  bronze  boy,  and  I  took  a 
picture  which  I  am  sending.  Somehow  the  boy  of 
the  fountain  has  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  alive, 
and  to  have  in  him  some  human  quality,  like  a  faun 
or  a  dryad. 

Last  night  I  sat  very  late  in  the  garden,  and  I 
thought  of  what  you  said  to  me  that  night  when  you 
tried  to  tell  me  about  your  life.  Do  you  remember 
what  you  said — that  when  I  came  into  it,  it  seemed 
to  you  that  the  garden  bloomed?  Well,  I  came 
across  this  the  other  day,  in  a  volume  of  Ruskin 
which  father  gave  me,  and  which  somehow  I've 
never  cared  to  read — but  now  it  seems  quite  won- 
derful : 

"  You  have  heard  it  said  that  flowers  flourish 
rightly  only  in  the  garden  of  some  one  who  loves 
them.  I  know  you  would  like  that  to  be  true  ;  5'ou 
would  think  it  a  pleasant  magic  if  you  could  flush 
your  flowers  into  brighter  bloom  by  a  kind  look 
upon  them ;  if  you  could  bid  the  dew  fall  upon  them 
in  the  drought,  and  say  to  the  south  wind,  '  Come 
thou  south  wind  and  breathe  upon  my  garden  that 

270 


CONTRART  MART 

ringing  in  the  stillness.  You  don't  tell  me  of  your- 
self, but  I  know  this,  that  in  that  boy  you've  found 
an  audience — and  he  is  doing  things  for  you  while 
you  are  doing  them  for  him.  You  are  living  once 
more,  aren't  you  ? 

And  the  little  sad  children.  I  was  so  glad  to  pick 
out  the  books  with  the  bright  pictures.  Weren't  the 
Cinderella  illustrations  dear  ?  With  all  the  gowns  as 
pink  as  they  could  be  and  the  grass  as  green  as 
green,  and  the  sky  as  blue  as  blue.  And  the  yellow 
frogs  in  "  The  frog  he  would  a  wooing  go,"  and  the 
Walter  Crane  illustrations  for  the  little  book  of 
songs. 

You  must  make  them  sing  "  Oh,  What  Have  You 
Got  for  Dinner,  Mrs.  Bond  ? "  and  "  Oranges  and 
Lemons  "  and  "  Lavender's  blue,  Diddle-Diddle." 

Do  you  know  what  Aunt  Isabelle  is  making  for 
the  little  girls  ?  She  is  so  interested.  Such  rosy 
little  aprons  of  pink  and  white  checked  gingham — 
with  wide  strings  to  tie  behind.  And  my  contribu- 
tion is  pink  hair  ribbons.  Now  won't  your  garden 
bloom  ? 

You  must  tell  me  how  their  little  garden  plots 
come  on.  Surely  that  was  an  inspiration.  I  told 
Porter  about  them  the  other  night,  and  he  said, 
"  For  Heaven's  sake,  who  ever  heard  of  beginning 
with  gardens  in  the  education  of  ignorant  children  ?  " 

But  you  and  I  begin  and  end  with  gardens,  don't 
we  ?     Were  the  seeds  all  right,  and  did  the  bulbs 

272 


THE  WORKADAT  WORLD 

come  up  ?  Aunt  Isabelle  almost  cried  over  your  de- 
scription of  the  joy  on  the  little  faces  when  the  cro- 
cuses they  had  planted  appeared. 

I  am  eager  to  hear  more  of  them,  and  of  you. 
Oh,  yes,  and  of  Cousin  Patty.     I  simply  love  her. 

There's  so  much  more  to  say,  but  I  mustn't.     I 

must  go  to  bed,  and  be  fresh  for  my  work  in  the 

morning. 

Ever  sincerely, 

Mary  Ballard. 

Among  the  Pines. 

I  shall  have  to  begin  at  the  last  of  your  letter,  and 
work  toward  the  beginning,  for  it  is  of  my  sad  chil- 
dren that  I  must  speak  first — although  my  pen  is 
eager  to  talk  about  you,  and  what  your  letter  has 
meant  to  me. 

The  sad  children  are  no  longer  sad.  Against  the 
sand-hills  they  are  like  rose  petals  blown  by  the 
wind.  Their  pink  aprons  tied  in  the  back  with  great 
bows,  and  the  pink  ribbons  have  transformed  them, 
so  that,  except  for  their  blank  eyes,  they  might  be 
any  other  little  girls  in  the  world. 

I  have  taught  them  several  of  the  pretty  songs; 
you  should  hear  their  piping  voices — and  with  their 
picture  books  and  their  gardens,  they  are  very  busy 
and  happy  indeed. 

Their  mother  is  positively  illumined  by  the  change 
in  her  young  folks.     Never  in  her  life  has  she  seen 

273 


CONTRART  MART 

any  country  but  this  one  of  charred  pines  and  sand. 
I  find  her  bending  over  the  Cinderella  book,  liking 
it,  and  liking  the  children's  little  gardens. 

"  We  ain't  never  had  no  flower  garden,"  she  con- 
fided to  me.  "Jim  he  ain't  had  time,  and  I  ain't 
had  time,  and  I  ain't  never  had  no  luck  nohow." 

But  the  boy  still  means  the  most  to  me.  And  you 
have  found  the  reason.  It  isn't  what  I  am  doing  for 
him,  it  is  what  he  is  doing  for  me.  If  you  could  see 
his  eyes !  They  are  a  boy's  eyes  now,  not  those  of 
a  little  wild  animal.  He  is  beginning  to  read  the 
simple  books  you  sent.  We  began  with  "Mother 
Goose,"  and  I  gave  him  first  **  The  King  of  France 
and  Forty  Thousand  Men."  The  "Oranges  and 
Lemons"  song  carried  on  the  Dick  Whittington 
atmosphere  which  he  had  liked  in  my  poem,  with  its 
bells  of  Old  Bailey  and  Shoreditch.  He'll  know  his 
London  before  I  get  through  with  him. 

But  we've  struck  even  a  deeper  note.  One  Sun« 
day  I  was  moved  to  take  out  with  me  your  father's 
old  Bible.  There's  a  rose  between  its  leaves,  kept 
ior  a  talisman  against  the  blue  devils  which  some- 
times get  me  in  their  grip.  Well,  I  took  the  old 
Bible  out  to  our  little  amphitheater  in  the  pines,  and 
read,  what  do  you  think  ?  Not  the  Old  Testament 
stories. 

I  read  the  Beatitudes,  and  my  boy  listened,  and 
when  I  had  finished,  he  asked,  "What  is  blessed? 
And  who  said  that  ?  " 

274 


THE  WORKADAT  WORLD 

I  told  him,  and  brought  back  to  myself  in  the 
telling  the  vision  of  myself  as  a  boy.  Oh,  how  far  I 
have  drifted  from  the  dreams  of  that  boy!  And  if  it 
had  not  been  for  you  I  should  never  have  turned 
back.  And  now  this  boy  in  the  pines,  and  the  boy 
who  was  I  are  learning  together,  step  by  step.  I 
am  trying  to  forget  the  years  between.  I  am  trying 
to  take  up  life  where  it  was  before  I  was  overthrown. 
I  can't  quite  get  hold  of  things  yet  as  a  man,  for 
when  I  try,  I  feel  a  man's  bitterness.  But  the  boy 
believes,  and  I  have  shut  the  man  in  me  away,  until 
the  boy  grows  up. 

Does  this  sound  fantastic  ?  To  whom  else  would 
I  dare  write  such  a  thing,  but  to  you  ?  But  you  wili^ 
understand.     I  feel  that  I  need  make  no  apology. 

Coming  now  to  you  and  your  work.  I  can  bring 
no  optimism  to  bear.  1  suppose  I  should  say  that 
it  is  well.  But  there  is  in  me  too  much  of  the  primi- 
tive masculine  for  that.  When  a  man  cares  for  a 
woman  he  inevitably  wants  to  shield  her.  But  what 
would  you?  Shall  a  man  let  the  thing  which  he 
would  cherish  be  buffeted  by  the  winds  ? 

I  don't  like  to  think  of  you  in  an  office,  with  all 
your  pretty  woman  instincts  curbed  to  meet  the 
stern  formality  of  such  a  life.  I  don't  like  to  think 
that  any  chief,  however  fatherly,  shall  dictate  to  you 
not  only  letters  but  rules  of  conduct.  I  don't  like  to 
think  of  you  as  hustled  by  a  crowd  at  lunch  time.  I 
don't  like  to  think  of  the  great  stone  walls  which  shut 

275 


CONTRART  MART 

you  in.  I  don't  want  your  wings  clipped  for  such  a 
cage. 

And  there  is  this  I  must  say,  that  all  men  do  not 
need  wives  to  toast  their  slippers  or  to  serve  their 
meals  piping  hot,  or  even  to  smooth  the  wrinkles, 
although  I  confess  that  there's  an  appeal  in  this  last. 
Some  of  us  need  wives  for  inspiration,  for  spiritual 
and  mental  uplift,  for  the  word  of  cheer  when  our 
hearts  are  weary — for  the  strength  which  believes  in 
our  strength — one  doesn't  exactly  think  of  Juliet  as 
toasting  slippers,  or  of  Rosalind,  or  of  Portia,  yet 
such  women  never  for  one  moment  failed  their  lovers. 

My  Cousin  Patty  says  that  work  will  do  you  good, 
and  we  have  great  arguments.  I  have  told  her  of 
you,  not  everything,  because  there  are  some  things 
which  are  sacred.  But  I  have  told  her  that  life  for  me, 
since  I  have  known  you,  has  taken  on  new  meanings. 

She  glories  in  your  independence  and  wants  to 
know  you.  Some  day,  it  is  written,  I  am  sure,  that 
you  two  shall  meet.  In  some  things  you  are  much 
alike — m  others  utterly  different,  with  the  differences 
made  by  heredity  and  environment. 

My  little  Cousin  Patty  is  the  composite  of  three 
generations.  Amid  her  sweets  and  spices,  she  is  as 
domestic  as  her  grandmother,  but  her  mind  sweeps 
on  to  the  future  of  women  in  a  way  which  makes  me 
gasp. 

Politics  are  the  breath  of  her  life.  She  comes  of  a 
long  line  of  statesmen,   and  having  no  father  o/ 

276 


THE  WORKADAT  WORLD 

brother  or  husband  to  uphold  the  family  traditions 
of  Democracy,  she  upholds  them  herselt  She  is 
intensely  interested  just  now  in  the  party  nominations. 
A  split  among  the  Republicans  gives  her  hope  of  the 
election  of  the  Democratic  candidate.  She's  such  a. 
feminine  little  creature  with  her  soft  voice  and 
appealing  manner,  with  her  big  white  aprons  cover- 
ing her  up,  and  curling  wisps  of  black  hair  falling 
over  her  little  ears,  that  the  contrasts  in  her  life  are 
almost  funny.  In  our  evenings  over  the  little  white 
boxes,  we  mix  questions  of  State  Rights  and  Free 
Trade  with  our  bridal  decorations,  and  it  seems  to 
me  that  I  shall  never  again  go  to  a  wedding  without 
a  vision  of  my  little  Cousin  Patty  among  her  orange 
blossoms,  laying  down  the  law  on  current  politics. 

The  negro  question  in  Cousin  Patty's  mind  is  that 
of  the  Southerner  of  the  better  class.  It  isn't  these 
descendants  of  old  families  who  hate  the  negro. 
Such  gentlefolk  do  not,  of  course,  want  equality,  but 
they  want  fair  treatment  for  the  weaker  race.  Find 
me  a  white  man  who  raves  with  rabid  prejudice 
against  the  black,  and  I  will  show  you  one  whose 
grandfather  belonged  not  to  the  planter  but  to  the 
cracker  class,  or  a  Northerner  grafting  on  Southern 
stock.  Even  in  slave  times  there  was  rancor  between 
the  black  man  and  what  he  called  "  po'  white  trash  " 
and  it  still  continues. 

The  picture  of  the  iittle  bronze  boy  with  his  crown 
of  roses  lies  on  my  desk.     I  should  like  much  to  sit 

277 


CONTRART  MART 

with  you  on  the  bench  beneath  the  hundred-leaved 
bush.  What  things  I  should  have  to  say  to  you  1 
Things  which  I  dare  not  write,  lest  you  never  let  me 
write  again. 

You  glean  the  best  from  everything.  That  you 
shouid  take  my  little  talk  about  gardens,  and  fit  it 
to  what  Ruskin  has  said,  is  a  gracious  act.  You 
speak  of  that  night  in  the  garden.  Do  you  remember 
that  you  wore  a  scarlet  wrap  of  thin  silk  ?  I  could 
think  of  nothing  as  you  came  toward  me,  but  of 
some  glorious  flower  of  almost  supernatural  bloom. 
All  about  you  the  garden  was  dying.  But  you  were 
Life — Life  as  it  springs  up  afresh  from  a  world  that 
is  dead. 

I  know  how  empty  the  old  house  seems  to  you, 
without  Barry,  without  Constance,  without  the 
beautiful  baby  whom  I  have  never  seen.  To  me  it 
can  never  seem  empty  with  you  in  it.  Is  the  saying 
of  such  things  forbidden  ?  Please  believe  that  I  don't 
•mean  to  force  them  on  you,  but  I  write  as  I  think. 

By  th*s  post  Cousin  Patty  is  sending  a  box  of  her 
famous  cake,  for  you  and  Aunt  Isabelle.  There's 
enough  for  an  army,  so  I  shall  think  of  you  as  dis- 
pensing tea  in  the  garden,  with  your  friends  about 
you — lucky  friends — and  with  the  little  bronze  boy 
looking  on  and  laughing. 

To  Mary  of  the  Garden,  then,  this  letter  goes  with 
all  good  wishes, 

Roger  Poole. 
278 


CHAPTER  XIX 

In  Which  Porter  Plants  an  Evil  Seed  Which  Grows 
and  Flourishes ;  and  in  Which  Ghosts  Rise  and 
Confront  Mary. 

AS  has  been  said,  Porter  Bigelow  was  not  a  snob, 
and  he  was  a  gentleman.  But  even  a  gentle- 
man can,  when  swayed  by  primal  emotions,  convince 
himself  that  high  motives  rule,  even  while  performing 
acts  of  doubtful  honor. 

It  was  thus  that  Porter  proved  to  himself  that  his 
interest  in  Roger  Poole's  past  was  purely  that  of  the 
protector  and  friend  of  Mary  Ballard,  Mary  must 
not  throw  herself  away.  Mary  must  be  guarded 
against  the  tragedy  of  marriage  with  a  man  who 
was  not  worthy.  And  who  could  do  this  better 
than  he  ? 

In  pursuance  of  his  policy  of  protection  he  took 
his  way  one  afternoon  in  July  to  Colin's  studio. 

"  I'm  staying  in  town,"  Colin  told  him,  "  because 
of  Miss  Jeliffe.  Her  father  is  held  by  the  long 
Session.  I'm  painting  another  picture  of  her,  and 
fixing  up  these  rooms  in  the  interim — hov/  do  you 
like  them  ?  " 

In  his  furnishing,  Colin  had  broken  away  from 
conventional   tradition.     H-  re   were  no   rugs  hung 

279 


CONTRART  MART 

from  balconies,  no  rich  stuffs  and  suits  of  armor  It 
was  simply  a  cool  little  place,  with  a  big  window 
overlooking  one  of  the  parks.  Its  walls  were  tinted 
gray,  and  there  were  a  few  comfortable  rattan  chairs, 
with  white  linen  cushions.  A  portrait  of  Delilah 
dominated  the  room.  He  had  painted  her  in  the 
costume  which  she  had  worn  at  the  garden  party — 
in  all  the  glory  of  cool  greens  and  faint  pink,  and 
heavenly  blue. 

Porter  surveying  the  portrait  said,  slowly,  "  You 
said  that  you  had  painted — other  women  ?" 

"  Yes — but  none  so  satisfactory  as  Miss  Jeliffe." 

"  There  was  the  little  saint — in  red." 

"  You  remember  that  ?  It  is  just  a  small  can- 
vas." 

"  You  said  you'd  show  it  to  me." 

Colin,  rummaging  in  a  second  room,  called  back, 
"  I've  found  it,  and  here's  another,  of  a  woman  who 
seemed  to  fit  in  with  a  Botticelli  scheme.  She  was 
the  long  lank  type." 

Porter  was  not  interested  in  the  Botticelli  woman, 
nor  in  Colin's  experiments.  He  wanted  to  see 
Roger  Poole's  wife,  so  he  gave  scant  attention  to 
Colin's  enthusiastic  comments  on  the  first  canvas 
which  he  displayed. 

"  She  has  the  long  face.  D'you  see  ?  And  the 
thin  long  body.  But  I  couldn't  make  her  a  success. 
That's  the  joy  of  Delilah  Jeliffe.  She  has  the  tem- 
perament of  an  actress  and  simply  lives  in  her  part 

280 


GHOSTS  RISE 

But  this  woman  couldn't.  And  lobster  suppers  and 
lovely  lank  ladies  are  not  synonymous — so  I  gave 
her  up." 

But  Porter  was  reaching  for  the  other  sketch. 

With  it  in  his  hand,  he  surveyed  the  small 
creature  with  the  angel  face.  In  her  dress  of  pure 
clear  red,  with  the  touch  of  gold  in  the  halo,  and  a 
lyre  in  her  hand,  she  seemed  lighted  by  divine  fire, 
above  the  earth,  appealing. 

"  I  fancy  it  must  have  been  the  man's  fault  if 
marriage  with  such  a  wife  was  a  failure,"  he  ventured. 

Colin  shrugged.  "  Who  can  tell  ? "  he  said. 
"There  were  moments  when  she  did  not  seem  a 
saint." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  Porter's  voice  was 
almost  irritable. 

"  It  is  hard  to  tell,"  the  little  artist  reflected — "  now 
and  then  a  glance,  a  word — seemed  to  give  hei 
away." 

**  You  may  have  misunderstood." 

"  Perhaps.  But  men  who  know  women  rarely 
misunderstand — that  kind." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  Roger  Poole  preach  ?  * 
Porter  asked,  abruptly. 

"  Several  times.  He  promised  to  be  a  great  man 
A  was  a  pity." 

"  And  you  say  she  married  again." 

"  Yes,  and  died  shortly  after." 

The  subject  ended  there,  and  Porter  went  awa^ 

281 


CONTRARY  MART 

with  the  vision  in  his  mind  of  Roger's  wife,  and  of 
what  the  picture  of  the  little  saint  in  red  would 
mean  to  Mary  Ballard  if  she  could  see  it. 

The  thought,  having  lodged  like  an  evil  seed,  grew 
and  flourished. 

Of  late  he  had  seen  comparatively  little  of  Mary. 
He  was  not  sure  whether  she  planned  deliberately  to 
avoid  him,  or  whether  her  work  really  absorbed  her. 
That  she  wrote  to  Roger  Poole  he  knew.  She  did 
not  try  to  hide  the  fact,  but  spoke  frankly  of  Roger's 
life  in  the  pines. 

The  flames  of  his  jealous  thought  burned  high  and 
hot.  He  refused  to  go  with  his  father  and  mother  to 
the  northern  coast,  preferring  to  stay  and  swelter  in 
the  heat  of  Washington  where  he  could  be  near 
Mary.  He  grew  restless  and  pale,  unlike  himself. 
And  he  found  in  Leila  a  confidante  and  friend,  for 
the  General,  like  Mr.  Jeliffe,  was  held  in  town  by  the 
late  Congress. 

Little-Lovely  Leila  was  Little-Lonely  Leila  now. 
Yet  after  her  collapse  at  the  boat,  she  had  shown  her 
courage.  She  had  put  away  childish  things  and  was 
developing  into  a  steadfast  little  woman,  who  busied 
herself  with  making  her  father  happy.  She  watched 
over  him  and  waited  on  him.  And  he  who  loved 
her  wondered  at  her  unexpected  strength,  not  know- 
ing that  she  was  saying  to  herself,  "  I  am  a  wife — 
not  a  child.  And  I  mustn't  make  it  hard  for  father 
— I  mustn't  make  it  hard  for  anybody.     And  when 

282 


GHOSTS  RISE 

Barry  comes  back  I  shall  be  better  fitted  to  share  his 
life  if  I  have  learned  to  be  brave." 

She  wrote  to  Barry — such  cheerful  letters,  and  one 
of  them  sent  him  to  Gordon. 

"  It  would  have  been  better  if  I  had  brought  her 
with  me,"  he  said,  as  he  read  extracts  ;  "  she's  a  little 
thing,  Gordon,  but  she's  a  wonder.  And  she's  the 
prop  on  which  I  lean." 

"  Presently  you  will  be  the  prop,"  Gordon  re- 
sponded, "and  that's  what  a  husband  should  be, 
Barry,  as  you'll  find  out  when  you're  married." 

When  ! — if  Gordon  had  only  known  how  Barry 
dreamed  of  Leila — in  her  yellow  gown,  trudging  by 
his  side  toward  the  church  on  the  hill — dancing  in 
the  moonlight,  a  primrose  swaying  on  its  stem. 
How  unquestioning  had  been  her  faith  in  him ! 
And  he  must  prove  himself  worthy  of  that  faith. 

And  he  did  prove  it  by  a  steadiness  which  aston- 
ished Gordon,  and  by  an  industry  which  was  almost 
unnatural,  and  he  wrote  to  Leila,  "  I  shall  show 
them,  dear  heart,  and  then  they'll  let  me  have  you." 

It  was  on  the  night  after  Leila  received  this  letter 
that  Porter  came  to  take  her  for  a  ride. 

"  Ask  Mary  to  go  with  us,"  he  said  ;  "  she  won't 
go  with  me  alone." 

Leila's  glance  was  sympathetic.  "Did  she  say 
she  wouldn't  ?  " 

"  I  asked  her.  And  she  said  she  was — tired.  As 
if  a  ride  wouldn't  rest  her,"  hotly. 

283 


CONTRART  MART 

"  It  would.     You  let  me  try  her,  Porter." 

Leila's  voice  at  the  telephone  was  coaxing.  *'I 
want  to  go,  Mary,  dear,  and  Dad  is  busy  at  the 
Capitol,  and " 

"  But  I  said  I  wouldn't." 

•'  Porter  won't  care,  just  so  he  gets  you.  He's  at 
my  elbow  now,  listening.  And  he  says  you  are  to 
ask  Aunt  Isabelle,  and  sit  with  her  on  the  back  seat 
if  you  want  to  be  fussy." 

"  Leila,"  Porter  was  protesting,  "  I  didn't  say  any- 
thing of  the  kind." 

She  went  on  regardless,  "  Well,  if  he  didn't  say  it 
he  meant  it.     And  we  want  you,  both  of  us,  awfully." 

Leila  hanging  up  the  receiver  shook  her  head  at 
Porter.  "You  don't  know  how  to  manage  Mary. 
If  you'd  stay  away  from  her  for  weeks — and  not 
try  to  see  her — she'd  begin  to  wonder  where  you 
were." 

"  No  she  wouldn't."  Porter's  tone  was  weighted 
with  woe.  "She'd  simply  be  glad,  and  she'd  sit  in 
her  Tower  Rooms  and  write  letters  to  Roger  Poole, 
and  forget  that  I  was  on  the  earth." 

It  was  out  now — all  his  flaming  jealousy.  Leila 
stared  at  him.  "  Oh,  Porter,"  she  asked,  breathlessly, 
"  do  you  really  think  that  she  cares  for  Roger  ?  " 

"  I  know  it." 

"Has  she  told  you?" 

"  Not — exactly.  But  she  hasn't  denied  it.  And 
he  sha'n't  have  her.     She  belongs  to  me,  Leila." 

284 


GHOSTS  RISE 

Leila  sighed.  "  Oh,  why  should  love  affairs  al- 
ways go  wrong?" 

"  Mine  shall  go  right,"  Porter  assured  her  grimly. 
"  I'm  not  in  this  fight  to  give  up,  Leila." 

When  they  took  Mary  in  and  Aunt  Isabelle,  Mary 
insisted  that  Leila  should  keep  her  seat  beside  Porter. 
"  I'm  dead  tired,"  she  said,  "  and  I  don't  want  to  talk." 

And  now  Porter,  aiming  strategically  for  Colin 
Quale's  studio,  took  them  everywhere  else  but  in  the 
direction  of  his  objective  point.  But  at  last,  after  a 
long  ride,  they  crossed  the  park  which  was  faced  by 
Colin's  rooms. 

"  Have  you  seen  Delilah's  portrait  ?  "  Porter  asked, 
casually. 

They  had  not,  and  he  knew  it. 

"  If  Colin's  in,  why  not  stop  ?  " 

They  agreed  and  found  Delilah  there,  and  her 
father.  The  night  was  very  hot,  the  room  was 
faintly  illumined  by  a  hanging  silver  lamp  in  an  al- 
cove. From  among  the  shadows,  Delilah  rose. 
"  Colin  is  telephoning  to  the  club  for  lemonades  and 
things,"  she  said  ;  "he'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 

"  We  came  to  see  your  picture,"  Mary  informed 
her. 

"  He  is  painting  me  again,"  Delilah  said,  "  in  the 
moonlight,  like  this." 

She  seated  herself  in  the  wide  window,  so  that 
back  of  her  was  the  silver  haze  of  the  glorious  night 
Her  dress  of  thin  fine  white  was  unrelieved. 

285 


CONTRARY  MART 

Colin,  coming  in,  set  down  his  tray  hastily  and 
hastened  to  change  the  pose  of  her  head.  "  It  will 
be  hard  to  get  just  the  effect  I  want,"  he  told  them. 
"  It  must  not  be  hard  black  and  white,  but  luminous." 

"  I  want  them  to  see  the  other  picture,"  Porter  said. 

Colin  switched  on  the  lights.  "I'll  never  do  bet- 
ter than  this,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  like  it,  Mary  ?  "  Delilah  asked.  "  It  is 
the  garden  party  dress." 

"  I  love  it,"  Mary  said.  "  It  isn't  just  the  dress, 
Delilah.  It's  you.  It's  so  joyous — as  if  you  were 
expecting  much  of  life." 

"  I  am,"  Delilah  said.   "  I'm  expecting  everything." 

"  And  you'll  get  it,"  Colin  stated.  "  You  won't 
wait  for  any  one  to  hand  it  to  you  ;  you'll  simply 
reach  out  and  take  it." 

Porter's  eyes  were  searching.  "Look  here, 
Quale,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  do  you  mind  letting  us 
see  the  others  ? — that  Botticelli  woman  and  the  Fra 
Angelico — they  show  your  versatility." 

Colin  hesitated.     "  They  are  crude  beside  this." 

But  Porter  insisted.  "  They're  charming.  Trot 
them  out,  Quale." 

So  out  they  came — the  picture  of  the  lank  lady 
with  the  long  face,  and  the  picture  of  the  little  saint 
in  red. 

It  was  to  the  girl  in  red  that  they  gave  the  most 
attention. 

"  How  lovely  she  is,"  Mary  said,  "  and  how  sweet** 

286 


GHOSTS  RISE 

But  Delilah,  observing  closely,  did  not  agree  with 
her.  "  I'm  not  sure.  Some  women  look  like  that 
who  are  little  fiends.  You  haven't  shown  me  this 
before,  Colin.     Who  was  she  ?  " 

Colin  evaded.  "  Some  one  I  knew  a  long  time 
ago." 

Porter  was  shaken  inwardly  by  the  thought  that 
the  little  blond  artist  was  proving  himself  a  gentle- 
man. He  would  not  proclaim  to  the  world  what  he 
had  told  Porter  in  confidence. 

Porter's  instincts,  however,  were  purely  primitive. 
He  wanted  to  shout  to  the  housetops,  *'  That's  the 
picture  of  Roger  Poole's  wife.  Look  at  her  and  see 
how  sweet  she  is.  And  then  decide  if  she  made  her 
own  unhappiness." 

But  he  did  not  shout.  He  kept  silent  and  watched 
Mary.  She  was  still  studying  the  picture  attentively. 
"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  say  that  she  could  be  any- 
thing but  sweet,  Delilah.  I  think  it  is  the  face  of  a 
truthful  child." 

Porter's  heart  leaped.  The  time  would  come 
when  he  would  tell  her  that  the  picture  of  the  little 
trustful  child  was  the  picture  of  Roger  Poole's  wife. 
And  then 

Colin  had  turned  off  the  lights  again.     They  sat 
now  among  the  shadows  and  drank  cool  things  and 
ate  the  marvelous  little  cakes  which  were  a  specialty 
of  the  pastry  cook  around  the  corner. 

"  In  a  week  we'll  all  be  away  from  here,"  Delilah 
287 


CONTRART  MART 

said.  "  I  wonder  why  we  are  so  foolish.  If  it 
weren't  for  the  fact  that  we've  got  the  habit,  we'd 
be  just  as  comfortable  at  home." 

"  I  shall  be  at  home,"  Mary  said.  "  I'm  not  en- 
titled yet  to  a  vacation." 

"  Don't  you  hate  it?"  Delilah  demanded  frankly. 

Mary  hesitated.  "  No,  I  don't.  I  can't  say  that 
I  really  like  it — but  it  gave  me  quite  a  wonderful 
feeling  to  open  my  first  pay  envelope." 

"  Women  have  gone  mad,"  Porter  said.  "  They 
are  deliberately  turning  away  from  womanly  things 
to  make  machines  of  themselves." 

Delilah,  taking  up  the  cudgels  for  Mary,  demanded, 
"  Is  Mary  turning  her  back  on  womanly  things  any 
more  than  I  ?  I  am  making  a  business  of  capturing 
society — Mary  is  simply  holding  down  her  job  until 
Romance  butts  into  her  life." 

Colin  stopped  her.  "  I  wish  you'd  put  your 
twentieth  century  mind  on  your  mid-Victorian 
clothes,"  he  said,  "and  live  up  to  them — in  your 
language." 

Delilah  laughed.  "Well,  I  told  the  truth  if  I 
didn't  do  it  elegantly.  We  are  both  working  for 
things  which  we  want.  Mary  wants  Romance  and 
I  want  social  recognition." 

Leila  sighed.  "  It  isn't  always  what  we  want  that 
we  get,  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  and  Porter  answered  with 
decision,  "  It  is  not.  Life  throws  us  usually  brick- 
bats instead  of  bouquets." 

288 


GHOSTS  RISE 

Colin  did  not  agree.  "Life  gives  us  sometimes 
more  than  we  deserve.  It  has  given  me  that  picture 
of  Miss  JelifiFe.  And  I  consider  that  a  pretty  big 
slice  of  good  fortune." 

"You're  a  nice  boy,  Colin/'  Delilah  told  him, 
"and  I  like  you — and  I  like  your  philosophy.  I 
fancy  life  is  giving  me  as  much  as  I  deserve." 

The  others  were  silent.  Life  was  not  giving  Leila 
or  Porter  or  Mary  at  that  moment  the  things  that 
they  wanted.  Porter's  demands  on  destiny  were 
definite.  He  wanted  Mary.  Leila  wanted  Barry. 
Mary  did  not  know  what  she  wanted  ;  she  only  knew 
that  she  was  unsatisfied. 

Porter  took  Leila  home  first,  then  drove  Mary  and 
Aunt  Isabelle  back  through  the  park  to  the  old 
house  on  the  hill. 

"  I'm  coming  in,"  he  said,  as  he  helped  Mary  out 
of  the  car. 

"  But  it  is  so  late,  Porter." 

"I've  been  here  lots  of  times  as  late  as  this.  I 
won't  be  sent  home,  Mary,  not  to-night." 

Aunt  Isabelle,  tired  and  sleepy,  went  at  once  uf>- 
stairs.  Mary  sat  on  the  porch  with  Porter.  Below 
them  lay  the  city  in  the  white  moonlight.  For  a 
while  they  were  silent,  then  Porter  said,  suddenly : 

"  Mary,  there's  something  I  want  to  tell  you.  You 
may  think  that  I'm  interfering  in  your  affairs,  but  I 
can't  help  it.  I  can't  see  you  doing  things  which 
will  make  you  unhappy." 

289 


CONTRART  MART 

"  I'm  not  unhappy.    What  do  you  mean,  Porter?" 

"You  will  be — if  you  go  on  as  you  are  going. 
Mary — I  took  you  to  Colin's  to-night  on  purpose,  so 
that  you  could  see  the  picture  of  the  little  saint  in 
red,  the  Fra  Angelico  one." 

"  Yes." 

"You  know  what  you  said  about  her — that  sh't 
had  such  a  trustful,  childish  face  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"That  was  the  picture  of  Roger  Poole's  wife, 
Mary." 

She  sat  as  still  in  her  white  dress  as  a  marbie 
statue. 

At  last  she  asked,  "  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Quale  told  me.  I  fancy  he  hadn't  heard  that 
Poole  had  lived  here,  and  that  we  knew  him.  So  he 
let  the  name  drop  carelessly." 

"  Well  ?  " 

He  turned  on  her  flaming-  "  I  know  what  you 
mean  by  that  tone,  Mary.  But  you're  unjust.  You 
think  I've  been  meddling.  But  I  haven't.  It  is 
only  this.  If  Poole  could  break  the  heart  of  one 
woman,  he  can  break  the  heart  of  another — and  he 
sha'n't  break  yours." 

"  Who  told  you  that  he  broke  her  heart  ?  " 

"  You've  seen  the  picture.  Could  a  woman  with 
a  face  like  that  do  anything  bad  enough  to  wreck 
a  man's  life?  I  can't  believe  it,  Mary.  There  are 
always  two  sides  of  a  question.* 

290 


GHOSTS  RISE 

She  did  not  answer  at  once.  Then  she  said,  "  How 
did  you  know  about — Roger?" 

"Delilah  told  me — he  couldn't  expect  to  keep  it 
secret." 

"  He  did  not  expect  it ;  and  he  had  much  to  bear." 

"Then  he  has  told  you,  and  has  pleaded  with 
eloquence?  But  that  child's  face  in  the  picture 
pleads  with  me." 

It  did  plead.  Remembering  it,  Mary  was  assailed 
by  her  first  doubts.  It  was  such  a  child's  face,  with 
saint's  eyes. 

Porter's  voice  was  proceeding.  "  A  man  can  al- 
ways make  out  a  case  for  himself.  And  you  have 
only  his  word  for  what  he  did.  Oh,  I  suppose  you'll 
think  I'm  all  sorts  of  a  cad  to  talk  this  way.  But 
I  can't  see  you  drifting,  drifting  toward  a  danger 
which  may  wreck  your  life." 

"Why  should  it  wreck  my  life  ?  " 

"  Because  Poole,  whatever  the  merits  of  the  case 
— doesn't  seem  to  me  strong  enough  to  shape  his 
destiny  and  yours.  Was  it  strong  for  him  to  let  go 
as  he  did,  just  because  that  woman  failed  him  ?  Was 
it  strong  for  him  to  hide  himself  here — like — like 
a  criminal  ?  A  strong  man  would  have  faced  the 
world.  He  would  have  tried  to  rise  out  of  his  wreck. 
His  actions  all  through  spell  weakness.  I  could  bear 
your  not  marrying  me,  Mary.  But  I  can't  bear  to 
see  you  marry  a  man  who  isn't  worthy  of  you.  To 
see  you  unhappy  would  be  torture  for  me." 

2QX 


CONTRART  MART 

In  his  earnestness  he  had  struck  a  genuine  note, 
and  she  recognized  it. 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  unsteadily.  "  I  believe  that 
you  think  you  are  fighting  my  battle,  instead  of 
your  own.  But  I  don't  think  Roger  Poole  would — 
lie." 

"  Not  consciously.  But  he'd  create  the  wrong 
impression — we  can  never  see  our  own  faults — and 
he  would  blame  her,  of  course.  But  the  man  who 
has  made  one  woman  unhappy  would  make  another 
unhappy,  Mary." 

Mary  was  shaken. 

"  Please  don't  put  it  so — inevitably.  Roger  hasn't 
any  claim  on  me  whatever." 

"  Hasn't  he  ?     Oh,  Mary,  hasn't  he  ?  " 

There  was  hope  in  his  voice,  and  she  shrank 
from  it. 

"  No,"  she  said,  gently,  "  he  is  just — my  friend.  As 
yet  I  can't  believe  evil  of  him.  But  I  don't  love  him. 
I  don't  love  anybody — I  don't  want  any  man  in  my 
life." 

She  thought  that  she  meant  it.  She  thought  it, 
even  while  her  heart  was  crying  out  in  defense  of 
the  man  he  had  maligned. 

"  How  can  one  know  the  truth  of  such  a  thing  ?  " 
she  went  on,  unsteadily.  "  One  can  only  believe  in 
one's  friends." 

"  Mary,"  eagerly,  "  you've  known  Poole  only  for 
a  few  months.     You've  known  me  always.     I  can 

292 


GHOSTS  RISE 

give  you  a  devotion  equal  to  anybody's.  Why  not 
drop  all  this  contrariness — and  come  to  me?" 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  asked  herself.  Roger  Poole  was 
obscure,  and  destined  to  be  obscure.  More  than 
that,  there  would  always  be  people  like  Porter  who 
would  question  his  past.  "  It  is  the  whispers  that 
kill,"  Roger  had  said.  And  people  would  always 
whisper. 

She  rose  and  walked  to  the  end  of  the  porch. 
Porter  followed  her,  and  they  stood  looking  down 
into  the  garden.  It  was  in  a  riot  of  summer  bloom 
— and  the  fragrance  rushed  up  to  them. 

The  garden  I  And  herself  a  flower !  It  was 
such  things  that  Roger  Poole  could  say,  and  which 
Porter  could  never  say.  And  he  could  not  say 
them  because  he  could  not  think  them.  The 
things  that  Porter  thought  were  commonplace, 
the  things  which  Roger  thought  were  wonderful. 
If  she  married  Porter  Bigelow,  she  would  walk 
always  with  her  feet  firmly  on  the  ground.  If  she 
married  Roger  Poole  they  would  fly  in  the  upper  air 
together. 

"  Mary,"  Porter  was  insisting,  "  dear  girl." 

She  held  up  her  hand.  "  I  won't  listen,"  she  said, 
almost  passionately ;  "  don't  imagine  things  about 
me.  Porter.  I  have  my  work — and  my  freedom — I 
won't  give  them  up  for  anybody." 

If  she  said  the  words  with  something  less  than  her 
former  confidence  he  was  not  aware  of  it     How 

293 


CONTRART  MART 

could  he  know  that  she  was  making  a  last  desperate 
stand  ? 

When  at  last  she  sent  him  away,  he  went  with  an 
air  of  depression  which  touched  her. 

"  I've  risked  being  thought  a  cad,"  he  said,  "  but 
I  had  to  do  it." 

"  I  know.     I  don't  blame  you,  dear  boy." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  upon  it,  and  he  went  away, 
and  she  was  left  alone  in  the  moonlight. 

And  when  the  last  echo  of  his  purring  car  had 
died  away  into  silence  she  went  down  and  sat  in  the 
garden  on  the  bench  beside  the  hundred-leaved 
bush.  Aunt  Isabelle's  light  was  still  burning,  and 
presently  she  would  go  up  and  say  **  Good-night," 
but  for  the  moment  she  ^  must  be  alone.  Alone  to 
face  the  doubts  which  were  facing  her.  Suppose, 
oh,  suppose,  that  the  things  which  Roger  had  told 
her  about  his  marriage  had  been  distorted  to  make 
his  story  sound  plausible  ?  Suppose  the  little  wife  had 
suffered,  had  been  driven  from  him  by  coldness,  by 
cruelty  ?  One  never  knew  the  real  inner  histories  of 
such  domestic  tragedies.  There  was  Leila,  for  ex- 
ample, who  knew  nothing  of  Barry's  faults,  and 
Barry  had  not  told  her.  Might  not  other  men  have 
faults  which  they  dared  not  tell  ?  The  world  was 
full  of  just  such  tragedies. 

When  at  last  Mary  reached  the  Tower  Rooms,  she 
undressed  in  the  dark.  She  said  her  prayers  in  the 
dark,  out  loud,  as  had  been  her  childish  habit.     And 

294 


GHOSTS  RISE 

this  was  what  she  said  :  "  Oh,  Lord,  I  want  to  be- 
lieve in  Roger.  Let  me  believe — don't  let  me  doubt 
— let  me  believe." 

When  at  last  she  slept,  it  was  to  dream  and  wake 
and  to  dream  again.  And  waking  or  dreaming,  out 
of  the  shadows  came  ghostly  creatures,  who  whis- 
pered, *'  His  little  wife  was  a  saint — how  could  she 
make  him  unhappy?"  And  again,  "He  may  have 
been  cruel,  how  do  you  know  that  he  was  not 
cruel?"  And  again,  "If  you  were  his  wife,  you 
would  be  thinking  always  of  that  other  wife — think- 
ing— -thinking — thinking.' ' 


t9S 


CHAPTER  XX 

In  Which  Mary  Faces  the  Winter  of  Her  Disco7ttent ; 
and  in  Which  Delilah  Sees  Things  in  a  Crystal 
Ball. 

THE  summer  slipped  by,  monotonously  hot,  lan- 
guidly humid.  And  it  was  on  these  hot  and 
humid  days  that  Mary  felt  the  grind  of  her  new  oc- 
cupation. She  grew  to  dread  her  entrance  into  the 
square  close  office  room,  with  its  gaunt  desks  and 
its  unchanging  occupants.  She  waxed  restless 
through  the  hours  of  confinement,  escaping  thank- 
fully at  the  end  of  a  long  day. 

She  longed  for  a  whiflf  of  the  sea,  for  the  deeps  of 
some  forest,  for  the  fields  of  green  which  must  be 
somewhere  beyond  the  blue-gray  haze  which  had 
settled  over  the  shimmering  city. 

She  began  to  show  the  effects  of  her  unaccustomed 
drudgery.  She  grew  pale  and  thin.  Aunt  Isabelle 
was  worried.  The  two  women  sat  much  by  the  foun- 
tain. Mary  had  begged  Aunt  Isabelle  to  go  away 
to  some  cooler  spot.  But  the  gentle  lady  had  re- 
fused. 

"This  is  home  to  me,  my  dear,'  she  had  said, 
"  and  I  don't  mind  the  heat.  And  there's  no  happi- 
ness for  me  in  big  hotels." 

296 


IN  A  CRYSTAL  BALL 

*'There'd  be  happiness  for  me  anywhere  that  "i 
could  get  a  breath  of  coolness,"  Mary  said,  rest- 
lessly.   '*  I  can  hardly  wait  for  the  fall  days." 

Yet  when  the  cooler  days  came,  there  was  the 
dreariness  of  rain  and  of  sighing  winds.  And  now 
it  was  November,  and  Roger  Poole  had  been  away  a 
year. 

The  garden  was  dead,  and  Mary  was  glad.  Dead 
gardens  seemed  to  fit  into  her  mood  better  than 
those  which  bloomed.  Resolutely  she  set  herself  to 
be  cheerful ;  conscientiously,  she  told  herself  that 
she  must  live  up  to  the  theories  which  she  had  pro- 
fessed ;  sternly,  she  called  herself  to  account  that  she 
did  not  exult  in  the  freedom  which  she  had  craved. 
Constantly  her  mind  warred  with  her  heart,  and  her 
heart  won ;  and  she  faced  the  truth  that  all  seasons 
would  be  dreary  without  Roger  Poole. 

Her  letters  to  him  of  late  had  lacked  the  sponta- 
neity which  had  at  first  characterized  them.  She 
knew  it,  and  tried  to  regain  her  old  sense  of  ease 
and  intimacy.  But  the  doubts  which  Porter  had 
planted  had  borne  fruit.  Always  between  her  and 
Roger  floated  the  vision  of  the  little  saint  in  red. 

It  was  inevitable  that  Roger's  letters  should 
change.  He  ceased  to  show  her  the  side  which  for 
a  time  he  had  so  surprisingly  revealed.  Their  cor- 
respondence became  perfunctory — intermittent. 

*'  It  is  my  own  fault,"  Mary  told  herself,  yet  the 
knowledge  did  not  make  things  easier. 

2on 


CONTRART  MART 

And  now  began  the  winter  of  her  discontent  If 
any  one  had  told  her  in  her  days  of  buoyant  self- 
confidence  that  she  would  ever  go  to  bed  weary  and 
wake  up  hopeless,  she  would  have  scorned  the  idea ; 
yet  the  fact  remained  that  the  fruit  of  her  independ- 
ence was  Dead  Sea  apples. 

It  was  a  letter  from  Barry  which  again  brought 
her  head  up,  and  made  her  life  march  once  more  to 
a  martial  tune. 

"  I  have  found  the  work  for  which  I  am  fitted,"  he 
wrote ;  "  you  don't  know  how  good  it  seems.  For 
so  many  years  I  went  to  my  desk  like  a  boy  driven 
to  school.  But  now — why,  I  work  after  hours  for  the 
sheer  love  of  it — and  because  it  seems  to  bring  me 
nearer  to  Leila." 

This  from  Barry,  the  dawdler !  And  she  who  had 
preached  was  whimpering  about  heat  and  cold,  about 
long  hours  and  hard  work — as  if  these  things  matter  I 

Why,  life  was  a  Great  Adventure,  and  she  had 
forgotten ! 

And  now  she  began  to  look  about  her — to  find,  if 
she  could,  some  ray  to  illumine  her  workaday  world. 

She  found  it  in  the  friendliness  and  companionship 
of  her  office  comrades — good  comrades  they  were — 
fighting  the  battle  of  drudgery  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
sharing  the  fortunes  of  the  road,  needing,  some 
of  them,  the  uplift  of  her  courage,  giving  some  of 
them  more  than  they  asked. 

As  Mary  grew  into  their  lives,  she  grew  away 

298 


IN  A  CRYSTAL  BALL 

somewhat  from  her  old  crowd.  And  if,  at  times,  her 
gallant  fight  seemed  futile — if  at  times  she  could  not 
still  the  cry  of  her  heart,  it  was  because  she  was  a 
woman,  made  to  be  loved,  fitted  for  finer  things  and 
truer  things  than  writing  cabalistic  signs  on  a  tablet 
and  transcribing  them,  later,  on  the  typewriter. 

Leila  had  refused  to  be  dropped  from  Mary's  life. 
She  came,  whenever  she  could,  to  walk  a  part  of  the 
way  home  with  her  friend,  and  the  two  girls  would 
board  a  car  and  ride  to  the  edge  of  the  town,  pre- 
ferring to  tramp  along  the  edges  of  the  Soldiers' 
Home  or  through  the  Park  to  the  more  formal 
promenade  through  the  city  streets. 

It  was  during  these  little  adventures  that  Mary 
became  conscious  of  certain  reserves  in  the  younger 
girl.  She  was  closely  confidential,  yet  the  open 
frankness  of  the  old  days  was  gone. 

Once  Mary  spoke  of  it.  "  You've  grown  up,  all 
in  a  minute,  Leila,"  she  said.  "  You're  such  a  quiet 
little  mouse." 

Leila  sighed.     "  There's  so  much  to  think  about." 

Watching  her,  Mary  decided.  "  It  is  harder  for 
hftr  than  for  Barry.  He  has  his  work.  But  she  just 
waits  and  longs  for  him." 

In  waiting  and  longing,  Little-Lovely  Leila  grew 
more  mouse-like  than  ever.  And  at  last  Mary  spoke 
to  the  General.     "  She  needs  a  change." 

He  nodded  "  I  know  it  I  am  thinking  of  tak- 
ing her  over  in  the  spring." 

299 


CONTRART  MART 

**  How  lovely.     Have  you  told  her  ?  " 

"  No — I  thought  it  would  be  a  grand  surprise." 

"  Tell  her  now,  dear  General.  She  needs  to  look 
forward." 

So  the  General,  who  had  been  kept  in  the  house 
nearly  all  winter  by  his  rheumatism,  spoke  of  certain 
baths  in  Germany. 

"  I  thought  I'd  go  over  and  try  them,"  he  informed 
his  small  daughter,  on  the  day  after  his  talk  with 
Mary,  "  and  you  could  stop  and  call  on  Barry." 

*'  Barry  1 "  She  made  a  little  rush  toward  him. 
"  Dad,  Dad,  do  you  mean  it  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  tucked  her  head  into  his  shoulder  and  cried 
for  happiness.    "  Dad,  I've  missed  him  so." 

With  this  hope  held  out  to  her,  Little-Lovely  Leila 
grew  radiant.  Once  more  her  feet  danced  along  the 
halls,  and  the  music  of  her  voice  trilled  bird-like  in 
the  big  rooms. 

Delilah,  discussing  it  with  her  artist,  said :  "  Leila 
makes  me  believe  in  Romance  with  a  big  R.  But  I 
couldn't  love  like  that." 

Colin  smiled.  "You'd  love  like  a  lioness.  I've 
subdued  you  outwardly,  but  within  you  are  still — 
primitive." 

"I  wonder "  Delilah  mused. 

"  The  man  for  you,"  Colin  turned  to  her  suddenly, 
"  is  Porter  Bigelow.  Of  course  I'm  taking  it  from  the 
artist's  point  of  view.     You're  made  for  each  other— 

300 


IN  A  CRYSTAL  BALL 

a  pair  of  young  gods — his  red  head  just  topping 
your  black  one — it  was  that  way  at  the  garden  party ; 
any  one  could  see  it." 

Delilah  laughed.  "  His  eyes  aren't  for  me.  With 
him  it  is  Mary  Ballard.  If  I  were  in  love  with  him, 
I  should  hate  Mary.  But  I  don't ;  I  love  her.  And 
she's  in  love  with  Roger  Poole." 

Colin  looked  up  from  the  samples  from  which  he 
and  Delilah  were  choosing  her  spring  wardrobe. 

"  Poole  ?  I  knew  his  wife,"  he  said  abruptly  ;  "  it 
was  her  picture  that  I  showed  you  the  other  night — 
the  little  saint  in  the  Fra  Angelico  pose — it  didn't 
come  to  me  until  afterward  that  he  might  be  the 
same  Poole  of  whom  I  had  heard  you  speak." 

Delilah  swept  across  the  room,  and  turned  the 
canvas  outward.  "  Roger  Poole's  wife,"  she  said, 
"  of  all  things  !  "     Then  she  stood  staring  silently. 

"  You  didn't  tell  us  who  she  was." 

'*-No,"  he  was  weighing  mentally  Porter's  attitude 
in  the  matter,  "  no  one  knew  but  Bigelow." 

"  And  he  showed  this  to  Mary  ?  "  They  looked 
at  each  other,  and  laughed.  "  Perhaps  all's  fair  in 
love,"  Delilah  murmured,  at  last,  "  but  I  wouldn't 
have  believed  it  of  him." 

As  she  turned  the  picture  toward  the  wall, 
Delilah  decided,  "  Mary  Ballard  is  worth  a  hun- 
dred of  such  women  as  this." 

"  A  woman  like  you  is  worth  a  hundred  of  them," 
Colin  stated  deliberately. 

301 


CONTRART  MART 

Delilah  flushed  faintly.  Colin  Quale  was  giving  to 
her  something  which  no  other  man  had  given.  And 
she  liked  it. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  are  doing  to  me?"  she 
said,  as  she  sat  down  by  the  window.  "  You  are 
making  me  think  that  I  am  like  the  pictures  you 
paint  of  me." 

"  You  are,"  was  the  quiet  response  ;  "  it's  just  a 
matter  of  getting  beneath  the  surface." 

There  was  a  pause  during  which  his  fingers  and 
eyes  were  busy  with  the  shining  samples — then 
Delilah  said :  "  If  Leila  and  her  father  go  to  Ger- 
many in  May,  I'm  going  to  get  Dad  to  go  too.  I 
don't  suppose  you'd  care  to  join  us  ?  You'll  want  to 
get  back  to  that  girl  in  Amesbury  or  Newburyport, 
or  whatever  it  is." 

"What  girl?" 

**  The  one  you  are  going  to  marry." 

"  There  is  no  girl,"  said  Colin  quietly,.  "  in 
Amesbury  or  Newburyport;  there  never  has  been 
and  there  never  will  be."  Coming  close,  he  held 
against  her  cheek  a  sample  of  soft  pale  yellow. 
**  Leila  Dick  wears  that  a  lot,  but  it's  not  for  you." 
He  stood  back  and  gazed  at  her  meditatively. 

"  Colin,"  she  protested,  *'  when  you  look  at  me 
that  way,  I  feel  like  a  wooden  model." 

He  smiled.  "  That's  what  you  have  come  to  mean 
to  me,"  he  said  ;  "  I  don't  want  to  think  of  you  as  a 
woman." 

302 


IN  A  CRYSTAL  BALL 

"  Why  not?  "  asked  daring  Delilah. 

"  Because  it  is,  to  say  the  least,  disturbing." 

He  occupied  himself  with  his  samples,  shaking  his 
head  over  them. 

"  None  of  these  will  do  for  the  Secretary's  dinner. 
You  must  have  lace  with  many  flounces  caught  up 
in  the  new  fashion.  And  I  shall  want  your  hair 
different.     Take  it  down." 

She  was  used  to  him  now,  and  pres^pntly  it  fell  about 
her  in  all  its  shining  sable  beauty ;  and  as  he  separated 
the  strands,  it  was  like  a  thing  alive  under  his  hands. 

He  crowned  her  head  with  the  braids  in  a  sort  of 
old-fashioned  coronet.  And  so  arranged,  the  old 
fashion  became  a  new  fashion,  and  Delilah  was  like 
a  queen. 

"  You  see — with  the  lace  and  your  pearl  orna- 
ments. There  is  nothing  startling ;  but  no  one  will 
be  like  you." 

And  there  was  no  one  like  her.  And  because  of 
the  dress,  which  Colin  had  planned,  and  because  of 
the  way  which  he  had  taught  her  to  do  her  hair, 
Delilah  annexed  to  her  train  of  admirers  on  the 
night  of  the  Secretary's  dinner  a  distinguished  titled 
gentleman,  who  was  looking  for  a  wife  to  grace  his 
ancestral  halls — and  who  was  impressed  mightily  by 
the  fact  that  Delilah  looked  the  part  to  perfection. 

He  proposed  to  her  in  three  weeks,  and  was  so 
sure  of  his  ability  to  get  what  he  wanted  that  he  was 
stunned  by  her  answer : 

303 


CONTRART  MART 

"  Perhaps  Til  make  up  my  mind  to  it,  I'll  give 
you  your  answer  when  I  come  over  in  the  spring." 

"  But  I  want  my  answer  now" 

"  I'm  sorry.     But  I  can't." 
!     When  she  told  Colin  of  her  abrupt  dismissal  of  the 
discomfited  gentleman,  she  asked,  almost  plaintively, 
*'  Why  couldn't  I  say  '  yes'  at  once  ?     It  is  the  thing 
I've  always  wanted." 

"  Have  you  really  wanted  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

**  Not  of  course.     You  want  other  things  more." 

**  What  for  example  ?  " 

"I  think  you  know." 

She  did  know,  and  she  drew  a  quick  breath. 
Then  laughed. 

"You're  trying  to  teach  me  to  understand  my — ■ 
emotions,  Colin,  as  you  have  taught  me  to  understand 
my  clothes." 

"You're  an  apt  pupil." 

Tea  came  in,  just  then,  and  she  poured  for  him, 
telling  his  fortune  afterward  in  his  teacup. 

"  Are  you  superstitious  ?  "  she  asked  him,  having 
worked  out  a  future  of  conventional  happiness  and 
success. 

"  Not  enough  to  believe  what  you  have  told  me." 
He  was  flickering  his  pale  lashes  and  smiling.  "  Life 
shall  bring  me  what  I  want  because  I  shall  make  it 
come." 

"  Oh,  you  think  that  ?  " 

304. 


IN  A  CRYSTAL  BALL 

**  Yes.  All  things  are  possible  to  those  of  us  who 
believe  they  are  possible." 

"  Perhaps  to  a  man.  But — to  a  woman.  There's 
Leila,  for  example.     I'm  afraid " 

"  You  mustn't  be.     Life  will  come  right  for  her." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  It  comes  right  for  all  of  us,  in  one  way  or  another. 
You'll  find  it  works  out.  You're  afraid  for  your  little 
friend  because  of  Ballard — he's  pretty  gay,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes.  More,  I  think,  than  she  understands.  But 
everybody  else  knows  that  they  sent  him  away  for 
that.  And  I  can't  see  any  way  out.  If  he  marries 
her  he'll  break  her  heart ;  if  he  doesn't  marry  her 
he'll  break  it — and  there  you  have  it." 

"  You  must  not  put  these  *  ifs '  in  their  way. 
There'll  be  some  way  out." 

She  rose  and  went  to  a  table  to  a  little  cabinet 
which  she  unlocked. 

"You  wouldn't  let  me  have  my  crystal  ball  in 
evidence,"  she  said,  "  because  it  doesn't  fit  in  with 
the  rest  of  my  new  furnishings — but  it  tells  things." 

"  What  things  ?  " 

"  I'll  show  you."  She  set  it  on  the  table  between 
them.     "  Put  your  hand  on  each  side  of  it." 

He  grasped  it  with  his  flexible  fingers.  "  Don't  in- 
vent   "  he  warned. 

She  began  to  speak  slowly,  and  she  was  still  at  it 
when  Porter's  big  car  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  he 
came  in  with  Mary  and  Leila. 

305 


CONTRART  MART 

"  I  picked  up  these  two  on  their  way  home," 
Porter  explained  ;  "  it  is  raining  pitchforks,  and  I'm 
in  my  open  car.  And  so,  kind  lady,  dear  lady,  will 
you  give  us  tea  ?  " 

Colin  and  Delilah,  each  a  little  pale,  breathing 
quickly,  rose  to  greet  their  guests. 

"She's  been  telling  my  fortune,"  Colin  informed 
them,  while  Delilah  gave  orders  for  more  hot  water 
and  cups.     "  It's  a  queer  business." 

Porter  scoffed.  "  A  fake,  if  there  ever  was 
one/' 

Colin  mused.  "  Perhaps.  But  she  has  the  air  of 
a  seeress  when  she  says  it  all — and  she  has  me  slated 
for  a — masterpiece — and  marriage." 

Leila,  standing  by  the  table,  touched  the  crystal 
globe  with  doubtful  fingers.  "  Do  you  really  see 
things,  Delilah  ?  " 

"  Sit  down,  and  I'll  prove  it" 

Leila  shrank.     "  Oh,  no." 

But  Porter  insisted.     "  Be  a  sport,  Leila." 

So  she  settled  herself  in  the  chair  which  Colin  had 
occupied,  her  curly  locks  half  hiding  her  expectant 
eyes. 

And  now  Delilah  looked,  bending  over  the  ball. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  Delilah  seemed 
to  shake  herself,  as  one  shakes  off  a  trance.  She 
pushed  the  ball  away  from  her  with  a  sudden  gesture. 
"  There's  nothing,"  she  said,  in  a  stifled  voice.  "  there's 
really  nothing  to  tell,  Leila." 

306 


IN  A  CRYSTAL  BALL 

"  I  knew  that  you'd  back  out  with  all  of  us  here  to 
listen,"  Porter  triumphed. 

But  Colin  saw  more  than  that. 

"  I  think  we  want  our  tea,"  he  said,  "  while  it  is 
hot,"  and  he  handed  Delilah  the  cups,  and  busied 
himself  to  help  her  with  the  sugar  and  lemon,  and  to 
pass  the  little  cakes,  and  all  the  time  he  talked  in  his 
pleasant  half-cynical,  half-earnest  fashion,  until  their 
minds  were  carried  on  to  other  things. 

When  at  last  they  had  gone,  he  came  back  to  her 
quickly. 

"What  was  it?"  he  asked.  " What  did  you  see 
in  the  ball?" 

She  shivered.  "  It  was  Barry.  Oh,  Colin,  I  don't 
really  believe  in  it — perhaps  it  was  just  my  imagina- 
tion because  I  am  worried  about  Leila,  but  I  saw  Barr3r 
looking  at  me  with  such  a  white  strange  face  out  of 
the  dark." 


iOJ 


CHAPTER  XXI 

In  Which  a  Little  Lady  in  Black  Comes  to  Washing' 
ton  to  Witness  the  Swearing-in  of  a  Gentleman 
and  a  Scholar. 

IT  was  in  February  that  Roger  wrote  somewhat 
formally  to  ask  if  his  Cousin  Patty  might  have  a 
room  in  Mary's  big  house  during  the  coming  inau- 
guration. 

"She  is  supremely  happy  over  the  Democratic 
victory,  but  in  spite  of  her  advanced  ideas,  she  is  a 
timid  little  thing,  and  she  has  no  knowledge  of  big 
cities.  I  feel  that  many  difficulties  would  be  avoided 
if  you  could  take  her  in.  I  want  her,  too,  to  know 
you.  I  had  thought  at  first  that  I  might  come  with 
her.     But  I  think  not.     I  am  needed  here." 

He  did  not  say  why  he  was  needed.  He  said  little 
of  himself  and  of  his  work.  And  Mary  wondered. 
Had  his  enthusiasm  waned?  Was  he,  after  all, 
swayed  by  impulse,  easily  discouraged  ?  Was  Porter 
right,  and  was  Roger's  failure  in  life  due  not  to  out- 
side forces,  but  to  weakness  within  himself  ? 

She  wrote  him  that  she  should  be  glad  to  have 
Cousin  Patty,  and  it  was  on  the  first  of  March  that 
Cousin  Patty  came. 

Once  in  four  years  the  capital  city  takes  on  a 
308 


A  LITTLE  LADT  IN  BLACK 

supreme  holiday  aspect.  In  other  years  there  may 
be  parades,  in  other  years  there  may  be  pageants — 
it  is  an  every-day  affair,  indeed,  to  hear  up  and  down 
the  Avenue  the  beat  of  music,  and  the  tramp  of 
many  feet.  There  are  funerals  of  great  men,  with 
gun  carriages  draped  with  the  flag,  and  with  the 
Marine  Band  playing  the  "  Dead  March."  There  are 
gay  cavalcades  rushing  in  from  Fort  Myer,  to  escort 
some  celebrity ;  there  are  pathetic  files  of  black  folk, 
gorgeous  in  the  insignia  of  some  society  which  gives 
to  its  dead  members  the  tribute  of  a  conspicuousness 
which  they  have  never  known  in  life.  There  are  cir- 
cus parades,  and  suffrage  parades,  minstrel  parades 
and  parades  of  the  boys  from  the  high  schools — all 
the  display  of  military  and  motley  by  which  men  ad- 
vertise their  importance  and  their  wares. 

But  the  Inauguration  is  the  one  great  and  grand 
effort.  All  work  stops  for  it ;  all  traffic  stops  for  it ; 
all  of  the  policemen  in  the  town  patrol  it ;  half  the 
detectives  in  the  country  are  imported  to  protect  it. 
All  of  fashion  views  it  from  the  stands  up-town  ;  all 
of  the  underworld  gazes  at  it  from  the  south  side  of 
the  street  down-town.  Packed  trains  bring  the  peo- 
ple. And  the  people  are  crowded  into  hotels  and 
boarding-houses,  and  into  houses  where  thresholds 
are  never  crossed  at  any  other  time  by  paying  guests. 

To  the  inauguration  of  19 13  was  added  another 
element  of  interest — the  parade  of  the  women,  on  the 
day  preceding  the  changing  of  presidents.     Hence 

309 


CONTRART  MART 

the  red  and  white  and  blue  of  former  decorations 
were  enlivened  by  the  yellow  and  white  and  purple 
of  the  Suffrage  colors. 

Cousin  Patty  wore  a  little  knot  of  yellow  ribbon 
when  Porter  met  her  at  the  station. 

Porter  was  not  inclined  to  welcome  any  cousin  of 
Roger  Poole's  with  open  arms.  But  he  knew  his 
duty  to  Mary's  guests.  He  had  offered  his  car,  and 
had  insisted  that  Mary  should  make  use  of  it. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  make  me  utterly 
miserable  by  refusing  to  let  me  do  anything  for  you, 
Mary,"  he  had  said,  when  she  had  protested.  "  It  is 
the  only  pleasure  I  have." 

Cousin  Patty,  in  spite  of  Porter's  preconceived 
prejudices,  made  at  once  a  place  for  herself.  She 
gave  him  her  little  bag,  and  with  a  sigh  of  such 
infinite  relief,  her  eyes  like  a  confiding  child's,  that 
he  laughed  and  bent  down  to  her. 

*•  Mary  Ballard  is  in  my  car  outside.  I  didn't 
want  her  to  get  into  this  crowd." 

Cousin  Patty  shuddered.  "  Crowd !  I've  never 
seen  anything  like — the  people.  I  didn't  know  there 
were  so  many  in  the  world.  You  see,  I've  never 
been  far  away  from  home.  And  they  kept  pouring 
in  from  all  the  stations,  and  when  I  reached  here  and 
stood  on  the  steps  of  the  Pullman,  and  saw  the 
masses  streaming  in  all  directions,  I  felt  faint — but 
the  conductor  pointed  out  the  way  to  go,  and  then  I 
saw  your — lovely  head." 

310 


A  LITTLE  LADT  IN  BLACK 

She  said  it  so  sincerely  that  Porter  laughed. 

"  Miss  Carew,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  you  mean  it." 

"  Mean  what  ?  " 

"  That  it's  a  lovely  head." 

**It  is."  The  dark  eyes  were  shining.  "You  were 
so  tall  that  I  could  see  you  above  the  people,  and 
Roger  had  described  how  you  would  look.  Mary 
Ballard  had  said  you  would  surely  be  here  to  meet 
me,  and  now — oh,  I'm  really  in  Washington  !  " 

If  she  had  said,  "  I'm  really  in  Paradise,"  it  could 
not  have  expressed  more  supreme  bliss, 

"  I  never  expected  to  be  here,"  Cousin  Patty  went 
on  to  explain,  as  they  crossed  the  concourse,  and 
Porter  guided  her  through  the  crowd.  "  I  never 
expected  it.  And  now  Roger's  beautiful  Mary 
Ballard  has  promised  to  show  me  everything." 

Roger's  beautiful  Mary  Ballard,  indeed  ! 

"  Miss  Ballard,"  he  said,  stiffly,  "  is  taking  a  week 
off  from  her  work.  And  she  is  going  to  devote  it  to 
sightseeing  with  you." 

"  Yes,  Roger  told  me.  Is  that  Mary  smiling 
from  that  big  car  ?  Oh,  Mary  Ballard,  I  knew  you'd 
be  just — like  this." 

Well,  nobody  could  resist  Cousin  Patty.  There 
was  that  in  her  charming  voice,  in  her  vivid  person- 
ality which  set  her  apart  from  other  middle-aged 
and  well-bred  women  of  her  type. 

Porter  made  a  wide  sweep  to  take  in  the  Capitol 
and  the  Library ;  then  he  flew  up  the  Avenue,  dis- 

311 


CONTRART  MART 

figured  now  by  the  stands  from  which  people  were 
to  view  the  parade. 

But  Cousin  Patty's  eyes  went  beyond  the  stand  to 
the  tall  straight  shaft  of  the  Monument  in  the  distance, 
and  when  they  passed  the  White  House,  she  simply 
settled  back  in  her  seat  and  sighed. 

"  To  think  that,  after  all  these  years,  there'll  be  a 
gentleman  and  a  scholar  to  live  there." 

"  There  have  been  other  scholars — and  gentle- 
men," Mary  reminded  her. 

"  Of  course,  my  dear.  But  this  is  different. 
You  see,  in  our  section  of  the  country  a  Republican 
is  just  a — Republican.  And  a  Democrat  is  a — 
gentleman  " 

Mary's  eyes  were  dancing.  "  Cousin  Patty,"  she 
said,  "  may  I  call  you  Cousin  Patty?  What  will  you 
do  when  women  vote  ?  Will  the  women  who  are 
Republicans  be  ladies  ?  " 

"  Oh,  now  you  are  laughing  at  me,"  Cousin  Patty 
said,  helplessly. 

Mary  gave  Cousin  Patty  the  suite  next  to  Aunt 
Isabelle's,  and  the  two  gentle  ladies  smiled  and 
kissed  in  the  fashion  of  their  time,  and  became  friends 
at  once. 

When  Cousin  Patty  had  unpacked  her  bag,  and 
had  put  all  of  her  nice  little  belongings  away,  she 
tripped  across  the  threshold  of  the  door  between  the 
two  rooms,  to  talk  to  Aunt  Isabelle. 

**  Mary  said  that  we  should  be  going  to  the  theater 
312 


A  LITTLE  LADY  IN  BLACK 

to-night  with  Mr.  Bigelow.  You  must  tell  me  what 
to  wear,  please.  You  see  I've  been  out  of  the  world 
so  long." 

"  But  you  are  more  of  it  than  I,"  Aunt  Isabelle 
reminded  her. 

Cousin  Patty,  in  her  pretty  wrapper,  sat  down  in 
a  rocking-chair  comfortably  to  discuss  it.  "  What  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  Mary  has  been  telling  me  how  far  ahead  of  me 
your  thoughts  have  flown.  You're  taking  up  all  the 
new  questions,  and  you're  a  successful  woman  of 
business.  I  have  envied  you  ever  since  I  heard 
about  the  wedding  cake." 

"  It's  a  good  business,"  said  Cousin  Patty,  "  and  I 
can  do  it  at  home.  I  couldn't  have  gone  out  in  the 
world  to  make  my  fight  for  a  living.  I  can  defy 
men  in  theory  ;  but  I'm  really  Southern  and  feminine 
— if  you  know  what  that  means,"  she  laughed 
happily,  "  Of  course  1  never  let  them  know  it,  not 
even  Roger." 

And  now  Mary  came  in,  lovely  in  her  white  dinner 
gown. 

"  Oh,"  she  accused  them,  "  you  aren't  ready." 

Cousin  Patty  rose.  "  I  wanted  to  know  what  to 
wear,  and  we've  talked  an  hour,  and  haven't  said  a 
word  about  it." 

"  Don't  bother,"  Mary  said  ;  "  there'll  be  just 
four  of  us." 

"  But  I  want  to  bother.  Roger  helped  me  to  plan 
313 


CONTRART  MART 

my  things.  He  remembered  every  single  dress  you 
wore  while  he  was  here." 

"  Really  ?  "  The  look  which  Roger  had  loved  was 
creeping  into  Mary's  clear  eyes.  "  Really,  Cousin 
Patty?'* 

"Yes.  He  drew  a  sketch  of  your  velvet  wrap 
with  the  fur,  and  I  made  mine  like  it,  only  I  put  a 
frill  in  place  of  the  fur."  She  trotted  into  her  room 
and  brought  it  back  for  Mary's  inspection.  "  Is  it 
all  right  ?  '*  she  asked,  anxiously,  as  she  slipped  it 
on,  and  craned  her  neck  in  front  of  Aunt  Isabelle's 
long  mirror  to  see  the  sweep  of  the  folds. 

"  It  is  perfect ;  and  to  think  he  should  remember." 

Cousin  Patty  gave  her  a  swift  glance.  "That 
isn't  all  he  has  remembered,"  she  said,  succinctly. 

It  developed  when  they  went  down  for  dinner  that 
Roger  had  ordered  a  box  of  flowers  for  them — 
purple  violets  for  Aunt  Isabelle  and  Cousin  Patty, 
white  violets  for  Mary. 

"  How  lovely,"  Mary  said,  bending  over  the  box 
of  sweetness.  "  I  am  perfectly  sure  no  one  ever  sent 
me  white  violets  before." 

There  were  other  flowers — orchids  from  Porter. 

"And  now — which  will  you  wear?"  demanded 
sprightly  Cousin  Patty,  an  undercurrent  of  anxiety 
in  her  tone. 

Mary  wore  the  violets,  and  Porter  gloomed  all 
through  the  play. 

"  So  my  orchids  weren't  good  enough,"  he  said, 
314 


A  LITTLE  LADY  IN  BLACK 

as  she  sat  beside  him  on  their  way  to  the  hotel 
where  they  were  to  have  supper. 

"  They  were  lovely,  Porter." 

"But  you  liked  the  violets  better?  Who  sent 
them,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  in  that  tone." 

"  You  don't  want  to  tell  me." 

•'  It  isn't  that — it's  your  manner."  She  broke  off 
to  say  pleadingly,  "  Don't  let  us  quarrel  over  it. 
Let  me  forget  for  to-night  that  there's  any  discord 
in  the  world — any  work — any  worry.  Let  me  be 
Contrary  Mary — happy,  care-free,  until  it  all  begins 
over  again  in  the  morning." 

Very  softly  she  said  it,  and  there  were  tears  in  her 
voice.  He  glanced  down  at  her  in  surprise.  "Is 
that  the  way  life  looks  to  you — you  poor  little 
thing  ?  " 

"Yes,  and  when  you  are  cross,  you  make  it 
harder" 

Thus,  woman-like,  she  put  him  in  the  wrong,  and 
the  question  of  violets  vs.  orchids  was  shelved. 

Presently,  in  the  great  red  dining-room,  Porter 
was  ordering  things  for  Cousin  Patty's  delectation 
of  which  she  had  never  heard.  Her  enjoyment  of 
the  novelty  of  it  all  was  refreshing,  She  tasted  and 
ate  and  looked  about  her  as  frankly  as  a  happy 
child,  yet  never,  with  it  all,  lost  her  little  air  of  serene 
dignity,  which  set  her  apart  from  the  flaming,  flaring 
type  oi  femininity  which  abounds  in  such  places, 

315 


CONTRART  MART 

The  great  spectacle  of  the  crowded  rooms  made  a 
deep  impression  on  Cousin  Patty.  To  her  this  was 
no  gathering  of  people  who  were  eating  too  much 
and  drinking  too  much,  and  who  were  taking  from 
the  night  the  hours  which  should  have  been  given 
to  sleep.  To  her  it  was — fairy-land ;  all  of  the  women 
were  lovely,  all  of  the  men  celebrities — and  the  gold 
of  the  lights,  the  pink  of  the  azaleas  which  were 
everywhere  in  pots,  the  murmur  of  voices,  the  sweet 
insistence  of  the  music  in  the  balcony,  the  trail  of 
laughter  over  it  all — these  were  magical  things, 
which  might  disappear  at  any  moment,  and  leave 
her  among  her  boxes  of  wedding  cake,  after  the 
clock  struck  twelve. 

But  it  did  not  disappear,  and  she  went  home 
happy  and  too  tired  to  talk. 

At  breakfast  the  next  morning,  Mary  announced 
their  programme  for  the  day. 

"  Delilah  has  telephoned  that  she  wants  us  to 
have  lunch  with  her  at  the  Capitol.  Her  father  is 
in  Congress,  Cousin  Patty,  and  they  will  show  us 
everything  worth  seeing.  Then  we'll  go  for  a  ride 
and  have  tea  somewhere,  and  the  General  and 
Leila  have  asked  us  for  dinner.  Shall  you  be  too 
tired  ?  " 

"Tired?"  Cousin  Patty's  laugh  trilled  like  the 
song  of  a  bird.     "  I  feel  as  if  I  were  on  wings." 

Cousin  Patty  trod  the  steps  of  the  historic  Capitol 
with  awe.     To  her  these  halls  of  legislation  were 

316 


A  LITTLE  LADT  IN  BLACK 

sacred  to  the  memory  of  Henry  Clay  and  of  Daniel 
Webster.  Every  congressman  was  a  Personage — 
and  many  a  simple  man,  torn  between  his  desire  to 
serve  his  constituents,  and  his  need  to  placate  the 
big  interests  of  his  state,  would  have  been  touched 
by  the  faith  of  this  little  Southern  lady  in  his  in- 
tegrity. 

"A  man  couldn't  walk  through  here,  with  the 
statues  of  great  men  confronting  him,  and  the  pic- 
tures of  other  great  men  looking  down  on  him,  and 
the  shades  of  those  who  have  gone  before  him 
haunting  the  shadows  and  whispering  from  the  gal- 
leries, without  feeling  that  he  was  uplifted  by  their 
influence,"  she  whispered  to  Mary,  as  from  the  Mem- 
ber's Gallery  she  gazed  down  at  the  languid  gentle- 
men  who  lounged  in  their  seats  and  listened  with 
blank  faces  to  one  of  their  number  who  was  speak- 
ing against  time. 

Colin  Quale,  who  lunched  with  them,  was  de- 
lighted with  her. 

"  She  is  an  example  of  what  I've  been  trying  to 
show  you,"  he  said  to  Delilah.  "  She  is  so  well 
bred  that  she  absolutely  lacks  self-consciousness,  and 
she  is  so  clear- minded  that  you  can't  muddy  her 
thoughts  with  scandals  of  this  naughty  world.  She 
is  a  type  worthy  of  your  study." 

"Colin,"  Delilah  questioned,  with  a  funny  little 
smile,  "  is  this  a  '  back  to  grandma '  movement  that 
you  are  planning  for  me  ?  " 

317 


CONTRART  MART 

The  pale  little  man  flickered  his  blond  lashes,  but 
his  face  was  grave. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  but  I  want  you  to  be  abreast  of 
the  times.  There's  going  to  be  a  reaction  from  this 
reign  of  the  bizarre.  We've  gone  long  enough  to 
harems  and  odalisques  for  our  styles  and  our  man- 
ners and  presently  we  are  going  to  see  the  blossom- 
ing of  old-fashioned  beauty." 

"  And  do  you  think  the  old  manners  and  morals 
will  come  ?  " 

He  shrugged.  "Who  knows?  We  can  only 
hope." 

It  was  to  Colin  that  Cousin  Patty  spoke  confid- 
ingly of  her  admiration  of  Delilah.  "  She's  beauti- 
ful," she  said.  "  Mary  says  that  you  plan  her  dresses- 
I  never  thought  that  a  man  could  do  such  things 
until  Roger  took  such  an  interest." 

"Men  of  to-day  take  an  interest,"  Colin  said. 
"  Woman's  dress  is  one  branch  of  art.  It  is  worthy 
of  a  man's  best  powers  because  it  adds  to  the  beauty 
of  the  world." 

"  That's  the  funny  part  of  it,"  Cousin  Patty  ven- 
tured ;  "  women  are  taking  up  men's  work,  and  men 
are  taking  up  women's — it  is  all  topsy  turvy." 

The  little  artist  pondered.  "  Perhaps  in  the  end 
they'll  understand  each  other  better." 

"  Do  you  think  they  will  ?  "■ 

"Yes.  The  woman  who  does  a  man's  work 
learns  to  know  what  fighting  means.    The  man  whc 

318 


A  LITTLE  LADT  IN  BLACK 

makes  a  study  of  feminine  things  begins  to  see  back 
of  what  has  seemed  mere  frivolity  and  love  of  ad- 
miration a  desire  for  harmony  and  beauty,  and  self- 
expression.  Some  day  women  will  come  back  to 
simplicity  and  to  the  home,  because  they  will  have 
learned  things  from  men  and  will  have  taught  things 
to  men,  and  by  mutual  understanding  each  will 
choose  the  best." 

Cousin  Patty  was  inspired  by  the  thought.  "  I 
never  heard  any  one  put  it  that  way  before." 

"  Perhaps  not — but  I  have  seen  much  of  the  world 
*— and  of  men — and  of  women." 

"  Yet  all  women  are  not  alike." 

"  No."  His  eyes  swept  the  table.  "  You  three — 
Miss  Ballard,  Miss  Jelifle — how  far  apart — yet  you're 
all  women — all,  I  may  say,  awakened  women — refus- 
ing to  follow  the  straight  and  narrow  path  of  the  old 
ideal.     Isn'tjt  so  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I'm  in  business — none  of  our  women  has 
ever  been  in  business.  Mary  won't  marry  for  a 
home — yet  'all  of  her  women  have,  consciously  or 
unconsciously,  married  for  a  home.  And  Miss 
Jeliffe  I  don't  know  well  enough  to  judge.  But  I 
fancy  she'll  blaze  a  way  for  herself." 

His  eyes  rested  on  Delilah.  "  She  has  blazed  a  way," 
he  said,  slowly  ;  "  she's  a  most  remarkable  woman." 

Delilah,  looking  up,  caught  his  glance  and  smiled. 

"Are  they  in  love  with  each  other?"  Cousin 
Patty  asked  Mary  that  night 

319 


CONTRART  MART 

Mary  laughed.  "  Delilah's  a  will-o'-the-wisp  ;  who 
knows  ?  " 

With  their  days  filled,  there  was  little  time  for  in- 
timacy or  confidential  talks  between  Mary  and 
Cousin  Patty.  And  since  Mary  would  not  ask  ques- 
tions about  Roger,  and  since  Cousin  Patty  seemed 
to  have  certain  reserves  in  his  direction,  it  was  only 
meager  information  which  trickled  out;  and  with 
this  Mary  was  forced  to  be  content 

Grace  marched  in  the  Suffrage  Parade,  and  they 
applauded  her  from  their  seats  on  the  Treasury 
stand.  Aunt  Frances,  who  sat  with  them,  was  filled 
with  indignation. 

"  To  think  that  my  daughter " 

Cousin  Patty  threw  down  the  gauntlet :  "  Why 
not  your  daughter,  Mrs.  Clendenning  ?  " 

"  Because  the  women  of  our  family  have  always 
been — different." 

"So  have  the  women  of  my  family,"  calmly,  "but 
that's  no  reason  why  we  should  expect  to  stand  still. 
None  of  the  women  of  my  family  ever  made  wed- 
ding cake  for  a  living.  But  that  isn't  any  reason 
why  I  should  starve,  is  it  ?  " 

Aunt  Frances  shifted  the  argument.  "  But  to 
march — on  the  street." 

"  That's  their  way  of  expressing  themselves.  Men 
march — and  have  marched  since  the  beginning. 
Sometimes  their  marching  doesn't  mean  anything, 
and   sometimes   it  does      And  I'm   inclined,"  said 

320 


A  LITTLE  LADT  IN  BLACK 

Cousin  Patty  with  an  emphatic  nod  of  her  head,  "  to 
think  that  this  marching  means  a  great  deal." 

On  and  on  they  came,  these  women  who  marched 
for  a  Cause,  heads  up,  eyes  shining.  There  had 
been  something  to  bear  at  the  other  end  of  the  line 
where  the  crowd  had  pressed  in  upon  them,  and 
there  had  been  no  adequate  police  protection,  but 
they  were  ready  for  martyrdom,  if  need  be,  perhaps, 
some  of  them  would  even  welcome  it. 

But  Grace  was  no  fanatic.  She  met  them  after- 
ward, and  told  of  her  experience  gleefully. 

"  You  should  have  been  with  me,  Mary,"  she  said. 

Porter  rose  in  his  wrath.  "  What  has  bewitched 
you  women?"  he  demanded.  "Do  you  all  believe 
in  it  ?  " 

And  now  Leila  piped,  "I  don't  want  to  march. 
I  don't  want  to  do  the  things  that  men  do.  I  want 
to  have  a  nice  little  house,  and  cook  and  sew,  and 
take  care  of  somebody." 

They  all  laughed.  But  Porter  surveyed  Leila  with 
satisfaction. 

"  Barry's  a  lucky  fellow,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  Porter,"  Mary  reproached  him,  as  he  helped 
her  down  from  her  high  seat  on  the  stand. 

"  Well,  he  is.  Leila  couldn't  keep  her  nice  little 
house  any  better  than  you,  Mary.  But  the  thing  is 
that  she  wants  to  keep  it  for  Barry.  And  you — you 
want  to  march  on  the  street — and  laugh — at  love." 

She  surveyed  him  coldly.     "  That  shows  just  how 
321 


CONTRARY  MART 

much  you  understand  me,"  she  said,  and  turned  her 
back  on  him  and  accepted  an  invitation  to  ride  home 
in  the  Jeliffes'  car. 

On  the  day  of  the  Inauguration,  the  same  party 
had  seats  on  the  stand  opposite  the  one  in  front  of 
the  White  House  from  which  the  President  reviewed 
the  troops. 

And  it  was  upon  the  President  that  Cousin  Patty 
riveted  her  attention.  To  be  sure  her  Httle  feet  beat 
time  to  the  music,  and  she  flushed  and  glowed  as 
the  soldiers  swept  by,  and  the  horses  danced,  and 
the  people  cheered.  But  above  and  beyond  all  these 
things  was  the  sight  of  the  man,  who  in  her  eyes 
represented  the  resurrection  of  the  South — the  man 
who  should  sway  it  back  to  its  old  level  in  the  affairs 
of  the  nation. 

"I  couldn't  have  dreamed,"  she  emphasized,  as 
she  talked  it  over  that  night  with  Mary,  "  of  any- 
thing so  satisfying  as  his  smile.  I  shall  always 
think  of  him  as  smiling  out  in  that  quiet  way  of  his 
at  the  people." 

Mary  had  a  vision  of  another  Inauguration  and  of 
another  President  who  had  smiled — a  President  whc 
had  captured  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen  as  per- 
haps this  scholar  never  would.  It  was  at  the  shrine 
of  that  strenuous  and  smiling  President  that  Mary 
still  worshiped.  But  they  were  both  great  nxin — it 
was  for  the  future  to  tell  which  would  live  longest  in 
the  hearts  of  the  people. 

322 


A  LITTLE  LADT  IN  BLACK 

The  two  women  were  in  Cousin  Patty's  room. 
They  were  too  excited  to  sleep,  for  the  events  of  the 
day  had  been  stimulating.  Cousin  Patty  had  sug- 
gested that  Mary  should  get  into  something  com- 
fortable, and  come  back  and  talk.  And  Mary  had 
come,  in  a  flowing  blue  gown  with  her  fair  hair  in 
shining  braids.  They  were  alone  together  for  the 
first  time  since  Cousin  Patty's  arrival.  It  was  a  mo- 
ment for  which  Mary  had  waited  eagerly,  yet  now 
that  it  had  come  to  her,  she  hardly  knew  how  to 
begin. 

But  when  she  spoke,  it  was  with  an  impulsive 
reaching  out  of  her  hands  to  the  older  woman. 

"  Cousin  Patty,  tell  me  about  Roger  Poole." 

Cousin  Patty  hesitated,  then  asked  a  question,  al- 
most sharply,  "  My  dear,  why  did  you  fail  him  ?" 

The  color  flooded  Mary's  face.  "  Fail  him  ?  "  she 
faltered. 

"  Yes.  When  he  first  came  to  me,  there  were 
your  letters.  He  used  to  read  bits  of  them  aloud, 
and  I  could  see  inspiration  in  them  for  him.  Then 
he  stopped  reading  them  to  me,  and  they  seemed  to 
bring  heaviness  with  them — I  can't  tell  you  how  un- 
happy he  was  until  he  began  to  make  his  work  fill 
his  life.  Do  you  mind  telling  me  what  made  the 
change  in  you,  my  dear?" 

Mary  gazed  into  the  fire,  the  blood  still  in  her  face. 

"  Cousin  Patty,  did  you  know  his  wife  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Is  it  because  of  her,  Mary  ?  " 
323 


CONTRART  MART 

"  Yes.  After  Roger  went  away,  I  saw  her  picture. 
Colin  had  painted  it.  And,  Cousin  Patty,  it  seemed 
the  face  of  such  a  little — saint." 

"Yet  Roger  told  you  his  story?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  didn't  believe  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  believe." 

**  I  see,"  but  Cousin  Patty's  manner  was  remote. 

Mary  slipped  down  to  the  stool  at  Cousin  Patty's 
feet,  and  brought  her  clear  eyes  to  the  level  of  the 
little  lady's.  "  Dear  Cousin  Patty,"  she  implored, 
"  if  you  only  know  how  I  wani  to  believe  in  Roger 
Poole." 

Cousin  Patty  melted.  "  My  dear,"  she  said  with 
decision,  "  Fm  going  to  tell  you  everything.'' 

And  now  woman's  heart  spoke  to  woman's  heart. 
"  1  visited  them  in  the  first  year  of  their  marriage.  I 
wanted  to  love  his  wife,  and  at  first  she  seemed 
charming.  But  I  hadn't  been  there  a  week  before  I 
was  puzzling  over  her.  She  was  made  of  different 
clay  from  Roger.  In  the  intimacy  of  that  home  I 
discovered  that  she  wasn't — a  lady — not  in  our  nice 
old-fashioned  sense  of  good  manners,  and  good 
morals.  She  said  things  that  you  and  I  couldn't 
say,  and  she  did  things.  I  felt  the  catastrophe  in 
the  air  long  before  it  came.  But  I  couldn't  warn 
Roger.  I  just  had  to  let  him  find  out.  I  wasn't 
there  when  the  blow  fell ;  but  I'll  tell  you  this,  that 
Roger  may  have  been  a  quixotic  idiot  in  the  eyes  of 

324 


A  LITTLE  LADT  IN  BLACK 

the  world,  but  if  he  failed  it  was  because  he  was  a 
dreamer,  and  an  idealist,  not  a  coward  and  a  shirk." 
Her  eyes  were  blazing.  "  Oh,  if  you  could  hear  what 
some  people  said  of  him,  Mary." 

Mary  could  fancy  what  they  had  said. 

"  Oh,  Cousin  Patty,  Cousin  Patty,"  she  cried. 
"  Do  you  think  he  will  ever  forgive  me  ?  I  have  let 
such  people  talk  to  me,  and  I  have  listened  1 " 


¥% 


CHAPTER  XXII 

In    Which  the    Garden   Begins   to    Bloom;   and  in 
Which  Roger  Dreams 

MARCH,  which  brings  to  the  North  sharp  winds 
and  gray  days,  brings  to  the  sand-hill  country 
its  season  of  greatest  beauty. 

Straight  up  from  the  unpromising  soil  springs  the 
green — the  pines  bud  and  blossom,  everywhere  there 
is  the  delicate  tracery  of  pale  leafage,  there  is  the 
white  of  dogwood,  the  pink  of  peach  trees  and  of 
apple  bloom,  and  again  the  white  of  cherry  trees 
and  of  bridal  bush.  There  are  amethystine  vistas, 
and  emerald  vistas,  and  vistas  of  rose  and  saffron — 
the  cardinals  burn  with  a  red  flame  in  the  magnolias, 
the  mocking-birds  sing  in  the  moonlight. 

It  was  through  the  awakened  world  that  Roger 
drove  one  Sunday  to  preach  to  his  people. 

He  did  not  call  it  preaching.  As  yet  his  humility 
gave  it  no  such  important  name.  He  simply  went 
into  the  sand-hills  and  talked  to  those  who  were 
eager  to  hear.  Beginning  with  the  boy,  he  had 
found  that  these  thirsty  souls  drank  at  any  spring. 
The  boys  listened  breathless  to  his  tales  of  chivalry, 
the  men  to  his  tales  of  what  other  men  had  achieved, 
the  women  were  reached  by  stories  of  what  their 

326 


ROGER  DREAMS 

children  might  be,  and  the  children  rose  to  his  bait 
of  fairy  books  and  of  colored  pictures. 

Gradually  he  had  gone  beyond  the  tales  of 
chivalry  and  the  achievements  of  men.  Gradually 
he  had  brought  them  up  and  up.  Other  men  had 
preached  to  them,  but  their  preaching  had  not  been 
linked  with  lessons  of  living.  Others  had  cried, 
"  Repent,"  but  not  one  of  them  had  laid  emphasis 
on  the  fact  that  repentance  was  evidenced  by  the 
life  which  followed. 

But  Roger  stood  among  them,  his  young  face 
grave,  his  wonderful  voice  persuasive,  and  told  them 
what  it  meant  to  be — saved.  Planting  hope  first  in 
their  hearts,  he  led  them  toward  the  Christ-ideal. 
Manhood,  he  said,  at  its  best  was  godlike ;  one  must 
have  purity,  energy,  education,  growth. 

And  they,  who  listened,  began  to  see  that  it  was  a 
spiritual  as  well  as  practical  thing  to  set  their  houses 
in  order,  to  plant  and  to  till  and  to  make  the  soil 
produce.  They  saw  in  the  future  a  community 
which  was  orderly  and  law-abiding,  they  saw  their 
children  brought  out  of  the  bondage  of  ignorance 
and  into  the  freedom  of  knowledge.  And  they  saw 
more  than  that — they  saw  the  Vision,  faintly  at  first, 
but  with  ever-increasing  clearness. 

It  was  a  wonderful  task  which  Roger  had  set  for 
himself,  and  he  threw  himself  into  his  work  with 
flaming  energy.  He  hired  a  buggy  and  a  little  fat 
horse,  and  spent  some  of  his  nights  en  route  in  the 

327 


CONTRART  MART 

houses  of  his  friends  along  the  way  ;  other  nights — 
and  these  were  the  ones  he  Hked  best — he  slept  un- 
der the  pines.  With  John  Ballard's  old  Bible  under 
his  arm,  and  his  prayer-book  in  his  pocket,  he  went 
forth  each  week,  and  always  he  found  a  congrega- 
tion ready  and  waiting. 

Over  the  stretches  of  that  barren  country  they 
came  to  hear  him,  sailing  in  their  schooner-wagons 
toward  the  harbor  of  the  hope  which  he  brought  to 
them. 

When  he  had  preached  from  his  pulpit,  he  had 
talked  to  men  and  women  of  culture  and  he  had 
spent  much  of  his  time  in  polishing  a  phrase,  or  in 
rounding  out  a  sentence.  But  now  he  spent  his 
time  in  search  of  the  cleax  words  which  would  carry 
his — message. 

For  Mary  had  said  that  every  man  who  preached 
must  have  a  message. 

Mary  ! 

How  far  she  had  receded  from  him.  When  he 
thought  of  her  now  it  was  with  a  sense  of  over- 
whelming loss.  She  had  chosen  to  withdraw  herself 
from  him.  In  every  letter  he  had  seen  signs  of  it — 
and  he  could  not  protest.  No  man  in  his  position 
could  say  to  a  woman,  *'  I  will  not  let  you  go."  "IHe 
had  nothing  to  offer  her  but  his  life  in  the  pines, 
a  life  that  could  not  mean  much  to  such  a  woman. 

But  it  meant  much  to  himself.  Gradually  he  had 
come    to    see    that  love  alone  could  never  have 

328 


ROGER  DREAMS 

brought  to  him  what  his  work  was  bringing.  He 
had  a  sense  of  freedom  such  as  one  must  have 
whose  shackles  have  been  struck  off.  He  began  to 
know  now  what  Mary  had  meant  when  she  had  said, 
"I  feel  as  if  I  were  Sying  through  the  world  on 
strong  wings."  He,  too,  felt  as  if  he  were  flying, 
and  as  if  his  wings  were  carrying  him  up  and  up  be- 
yond any  heights  to  which  he  had  hitherto  soared. 

He  slept  that  night  in  one  of  the  rare  groves  of 
old  pines.  He  made  a  couch  of  the  brown  needles 
and  threw  a  rug  over  them.  The  air  was  soft  and 
heavy  with  resinous  perfume.  As  he  lay  there  in 
the  stillness,  the  pines  stretched  above  him  like  the 
arches  of  some  great  cathedral.  His  text  came  to 
him,  "  Come  thou  south  wind  and  blow  upon  my 
garden."  It  was  a  simple  people  to  whom  he  would 
talk  on  the  morrow,  but  these  things  they  could  un- 
derstand— the  winds  of  heaven,  g.nd  the  stars,  and 
the  little  foxes  that  could  spoil  the  grapes. 

When  he  woke  there  was  a.  mocking-bird  singing. 
He  had  gone  to  sleep  obsessed  by  his  sermon,  up- 
lifted. He  woke  with  a  sense  of  loneliness — a  great 
longing  for  human  help  and  understanding — a  long- 
ing to  look  once  more  into  Mary  Ballard's  clear  eyes 
and  to  draw  strength  from  the  source  which  had 
once  inspired  him. 

John  Ballard's  Bible  lay  on  the  rug  beside  him. 
He  opened  it,  and  the  leaves  fell  apart  at  a  page 
where  a  rose  had  once  been  pressed.     The  rose  was 

329 


CONTRART  MART 

dead  now,  and  had  been  laid  away  carefully,  lest  it 
should  be  lost.  But  the  impress  was  still  there,  as 
the  memory  of  Mary's  frank  friendliness  was  still  in 
his  mind. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  he  closed  the  book.  But 
at  last  he  sighed  and  rose  from  his  couch.  It  was 
inevitable,  this  drifting  apart.  Fate  would  hold  for 
Mary  some  brilliant  future.  As  for  him,  he  must  go 
on  with  his  work  alone. 

Yet  he  realized,  even  in  that  moment  of  renuncia- 
tion, that  it  was  a  wonderful  thing  that  he  could  at 
last  go  on  alone.  A  year  ago  he  had  needed  all  of 
Mary's  strength  to  spur  him  to  the  effort,  all  of  her 
belief  in  him.  Now  with  his  heart  still  crying  out 
for  her,  needing  her,  he  could  still  go  on  alone  ! 

He  drew  a  long  breath,  and  looked  up  through 
the  singing  tree-tops  to  the  bit  of  sky  above.  He 
stood  there  for  a  long  time,  silent,  looking  up  into 
the  shining  sky. 

At  ten  o'clock  when  he  entered  the  circle  of  young 
pines,  his  congregation  was  ready  for  him,  sitting 
on  the  rough  seats  which  the  men  had  fashioned, 
their  eager  faces  welcoming  him,  their  eyes  lighted. 

The  children  whom  he  had  taught  led  in  the  sing- 
ing of  the  simple  old  hymns,  and  Roger  read  a 
prayer. 

Then  he  talked.  He  withheld  nothing  of  the 
poetry  of  his  subject ;  and  they  rose  to  his  eloquence. 
And  when  light  began  to  fill  a  man's  eyes  or  tears  to 

330 


ROGER  DREAMS 

fill  a  woman's — Roger  knew  that  the  work  oi  the 
soul  was  well  begun. 

Afterward  he  went  among  them,  becoming  one 
of  them  in  friendliness  and  sympathy,  but  set  apart 
and  consecrated  by  the  wisdom  which  made  him 
their  leader. 

Among  a  group  of  men  he  spoke  of  politics. 
"  There's  the  new  President,"  he  said ;  "  it  has  been  a 
great  week  in  Washington.  His  administration  ought 
to  mean  great  things  for  you  people  down  here." 

Thus  he  roused  their  interest ;  thus  he  led  them  to 
ask  questions ;  thus  he  drew  them  into  eager  con- 
troversy ;  thus  he  waked  their  minds  into  activity  ; 
thus  he  roused  their  sluggish  souls. 

But  he  found  his  keenest  delight  in  the  children's 
gardens. 

They  were  such  lovely  little  gardens  now — with 
violets  blooming  in  their  borders,  with  daffodils  and 
jonquils  and  hyacinths.  Every  bit  of  bloom  spoke 
to  him  of  Mary.  Not  for  one  moment  had  she  lost 
her  interest  in  the  children's  gardens,  although  she 
had  ceased,  it  seemed,  to  have  interest  in  any  other 
of  his  affairs. 

Before  he  went,  the  children  had  to  have  their  fairy 
tale.  But  to-night  he  would  not  tell  them  Cinderella 
or  Red  Riding  Hood.  The  day  seemed  to  demand 
something  more  than  that,  so  he  told  them  the  story 
of  the  ninety  and  nine,  and  of  the  sheep  that  was  lost. 

He  made  much  of  the  story  of  the  sheep,  showing 

331 


CONTRART  MART 

to  these  children,  who  knew  little  of  shepherds  and 
little  of  mountains,  a  picture  which  held  them  breath- 
less. For  far  back,  perhaps,  the  ancestors  of  these 
sand-hill  folk  had  herded  sheep  on  the  hills  of  Scot- 
land. 

Then  he  sang  the  song,  and  so  well  did  he  tell  the 
story  and  so  well  did  he  sing  the  song  that  they  re- 
joiced with  him  over  the  sheep  that  was  found — for 
he  had  made  it  a  little  lamb — helpless  and  bleating, 
and  wanting  very  much  its  mother. 

The  song,  borne  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  reached 
the  ears  of  a  man  with  a  worn  face,  who  slouched  in 
the  shadow  of  the  pines. 

Later  he  spoke  to  Roger  Poole.  "  I  reckon  I'm 
that  lost  sheep/'  he  said,  soberly,  "  an'  nobody  ain't 
gone  out  to  find  me — yit." 

"  Find  yourself,"  said  Roger. 

The  man  stared. 

"  Find  yourself,"  Roger  said  ;  "  look  at  those  little 
gardens  over  there  that  the  children  have  made. 
Can  you  match  them  ?  " 

"  I  reckon  I've  got  somethin'  else  to  do  beside 
make  gardens,"  drawled  the  man. 

"  What  have  you  got  to  do  that's  better?  "  Roger 
demanded. 

The  man  hesitated  and  Roger  pressed  his  point. 
"  Flowers  for  the  children — crops  for  men — I'll  wager 
you've  a  lot  of  land  and  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
it     Let's  try  to  make  things  grow." 

332 


ROGER  DREAMS 

'    "  Us  ?    You  mean  you  and  me,  parson  ?  " 

"  Yes.  And  while  we  plant  and  sow,  we'll  talk 
about  the  state  of  your  soul."  Roger  reached  out  his 
hand  to  the  lean  and  lank  sinner. 

And  the  lean  and  lank  sinner  took  it,  with  some- 
thing beginning  to  glow  in  the  back  of  his  eyes. 

"  I  reckon  I  ain't  got  on  to  your  scheme  of  salva- 
tion," he  remarked  shrewdly,  "  but  somehow  I  have 
a  feelin'  that  I  ain't  goin'  to  git  through  those  days 
of  plantin'  crops  with  you  without  your  plantin' 
somethin'  in  me  that's  bound  to  grow." 

In  such  ways  did  Roger  meet  men,  women  and 
children,  reaching  out  from  his  loneliness  to  their 
need,  giving  much  and  receiving  more. 

It  was  on  Tuesday  morning  that  he  came  back 
finally  to  the  house  which  seemed  empty  because  of 
Cousin  Patty's  absence.  The  little  lady  was  still  in. 
Washington,  whence  she  had  writ<"en  hurried  notes, 
promising  more  when  the  rush  was  over. 

At  the  gate  he  met  the  rural  carrier,  who  gave  him 
the  letters.     There  was  one  on  top  from  Mary  Ballard. 

Roger  tore  it  open  and  read  it,  as  he  walked  toward 
the  house.  It  contained  only  a  scribbled  line — but 
it  set  his  pulses  bounding. 

■'  Dear  Roger  Poole  : 

"  I  want  to  be  friends  again.  Such  friends  as 
we  were  in  the  Tower  Rooms.  I  know  I  don't 
deserve  it — but — please. 

"  Mary  Ballard." 
333 


CONTRART  MART 

It  seemed  to  him,  as  he  finished  it  that  all  the 
world  was  singing,  not  merely  the  mocking-birds  in 
the  magnolias,  but  the  whole  incomparable  chorus 
of  the  universe.  It  seemed  an  astounding  thing  that 
she  should  have  written  thus  to  him.  He  had  so 
adjusted  himself  to  the  fact  of  repeated  disappoint- 
ment, repeated  failure,  that  he  found  it  hard  to 
believe  that  such  happiness  could  be  his.  Yet  she 
had  written  it ;  that  she  wanted  to  be — his  friend. 

At  first  his  thoughts  did  not  fly  beyond  friendship. 
But  as  he  sat  down  on  the  porch  steps  to  think  it 
over  he  began,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  known 
her,  to  dream  of  a  life  in  which  she  should  be  more 
to  him  than  friend. 

And  why  not  ?  Why  shouldn't  he  dream  ?  Mary 
was  not  like  other  women.  She  looked  above  and 
beyond  the  little  things.  Might  not  a  man  offer  her 
that  which  was  finer  than  gold,  greater  than  material 
success  ?  Might  not  a  man  offer  her  a  life  which 
had  to  do  with  life  and  love — might  he  not  share 
with  her  this  opportunity  to  make  this  garden  in  the 
sand-hills  bloom  ? 

And  now,  while  the  mocking-birds  sang  madly, 
.Roger  Poole  saw  Mary — here  beside  him  on  the 
porch  on  a  morning  like  this,  with  the  lilacs  waving 
perfumed  plumes  of  mauve  and  white,  with  the  birds 
flashing  in  blue  and  scarlet  and  gold  from  pine  to 
magnolia,  and  from  magnolia  back  to  pine — with 
the  sky  unclouded,  the  air  fresh  and  sweet 

334 


ROGER  DREAMS 

He  saw  her  as  she  might  travel  with  him  com* 
fortably  toward  the  sand-hills,  in  a  schooner-wagon 
made  for  her  use,  fitted  with  certain  luxuries  of 
cushions  and  rugs.  He  saw  her  with  him  in  deep 
still  groves,  coming  at  last  to  that  circle  of  young 
pines  where  he  preached,  meeting  his  people,  sup- 
plementing his  labor  with  her  loveliness.  He  saw — 
oh,  dream  of  dreams — he  saw  a  little  white  church 
among  the  sand-hills,  a  little  church  with  a  bell,  such 
a  bell  as  the  boy  had  not  heard  before  Whittington 
rang  them  all  for  him.  Later,  perhaps,  there  might 
be  a  rectory  near  the  church,  a  rectory  with  a  garden 
— and  Mary  in  the  garden. 

So,  tired  after  his  journey,  he  sat  with  unseeing 
eyes,  needing  rest,  needing  food,  yet  feeling  no 
fatigue  as  his  soul  leaped  over  time  and  space 
toward  the  goal  of  happiness. 

He  was  aroused  by  the  appearance  of  Aunt  Chloe, 
the  cook. 

"I'se  jus'  been  lookin'  fo'  you,  Mr.  Roger,"  she 
said.  "  A  telegraf  done  come,  yestiddy,  and  I  ain't 
knowed  what  to  do  wid  it." 

She  handed  it  to  him,  and  watched  him  anxiously 
as  he  opened  it. 

It  was  from  Cousin  Patty. 

"  Mary  has  had  sad  news  of  Barry.  We  need  yoa 
Can  you  come  ?  " 


335 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

In  Which  Little-Lovely  Leila  Looks  Forward  to  the 
Month  of  May  ;  and  in  Which  Barry  Rides  Into 
a  Town  With  Narrow  Streets. 

IT  was  when  Little-Lovely  Leila  was  choosing  cer- 
tain gowns  for  her  trip  abroad  that  she  had 
almost  given  away  her  secret  to  Delilah. 

"  I  want  a  yellow  one,"  she  had  remarked,  "  with 

a  primrose  hat,  like  I  wore  when  Barry  and  I " 

She  stopped,  blushing  furiously. 

"  When  you  and  Barry  what?"  demanded  Delilah. 

Leila  having  started  to  say,  "  When  Barry  and  I 
ran  away  to  be  married,"  stumbled  over  a  substitute, 
"Well,  I  wore  a  yellow  gown — when — when " 

"  Not  when  he  proposed,  duckie.  That  was  the 
day  at  Fort  Myer.  I  knew  it  the  minute  I  came  out 
and  saw  your  face  ;  and  then  that  telephone  message 
about  the  picture.  Were  you  really  jealous  when 
you  found  it  on  my  table  ?  " 

"  Dreadfully."  Leila  breathed  freely  once  more. 
The  subject  of  the  primrose  gown  was  shelved  safely. 

"You  needn't  have  been.  All  the  world  knew 
that  Barry  was  yours." 

^'  And  he's  mine  now,"  Leila  laughed ;  "  and  I  am 
to  see  him  in — May." 

In  the  days  which  followed  she  was  a  very  busy 

336 


little  Leila.  On  every  pretty  garment  that  she  made 
or  bought,  she  embroidered  in  fine  silk  a  wreath  of 
primroses.  It  was  her  own  delicious  secret,  this 
adopting  of  her  bridal  color.  Other  brides  might 
be  married  in  white,  but  she  had  been  different — 
her  gown  had  been  the  color  of  the  great  gold  moon 
that  had  lighted  their  way.  What  a  v/edding  jour- 
ney it  had  been — and  how  she  and  Barry  would 
laugh  over  it  in  the  years  to  come  I 

For  the  tragedy  which  had  weighed  so  heavily 
began  now  to  seem  like  a  happy  comedy.  In  a  few 
weeks  she  would  see  Barry,  in  a  few  weeks  all  the 
world  would  know  that  she  was  his  wife  I 

So  she  packed  her- fragrant  boxes — so  she  em- 
broidered, and  sang,  and  dreamed. 

Barry  had  written  that  he  was  "  making  good  " ; 
and  that  when  she  came  he  would  tell  Gordon.  And 
the  General  should  go  on  to  Germany,  and  he  and 
Leila  would  have  their  honeymoon  trip. 

"  You  must  decide  where  we  shall  go,"  he  had 
said,  and  Leila  had  planned  joyously. 

"  Dad  and  I  motored  once  into  Scotland,  and  we 
stopped  at  a  little  town  for  tea.  Such  a  queer  little 
story-book  town,  Barry,  with  funny  houses  and  with 
the  streets  so  narrow  that  the  people  leaned  out  of 
their  windows  and  gossiped  over  our  heads,  and  I 
am  sure  they  could  have  shaken  hands  across. 
There  wasn't  even  room  for  our  car  to  turn  around, 
and  we  had  to  go  on  and  on  until  we  came  to  the 

2Z7 


CONTRART  MART 

edge  of  the  town,  and  there  was  the  dearest  inn. 
We  stopped  and  stayed  that  night — and  the  linea 
all  smelled  of  lavender,  and  there  was  a  sweet  dump- 
ling of  a  landlady,  and  old-fashioned  flowers  in  a 
trim  little  garden — and  all  the  hills  beyond  and  a 
lake.     Let's  go  there,  Barry  ;  it  will  be  beautiful." 

They  planned,  too,  to  go  into  lodgings  afterward 
in  London. 

The  thought  of  lodgings  gave  Leila  a  thrill.  She 
hunted  out  her  fat  litde  volume  of  Martin  Chuz- 
zlewit  and  gloated  over  Ruth  Pinch  and  her  beef- 
steak pie.  She  added  two  or  three  captivating 
aprons  to  the  contents  of  the  fragrant  boxes.  She 
even  bought  a  cook-book,  and  it  was  with  a 
sigh  that  she  laid  the  cook-book  away  when  Barry 
wrote  that  in  such  lodgings  as  he  would  choose  the 
landlady  would  serve  their  meals  in  the  sitting-room. 
And  this  plan  would  give  Leila  more  time  to  see  the 
sights  of  London ! 

But  what  cared  Little-Lovely  Leila  for  seeing 
sights  ?  Anybody  could  see  sights — any  dreary  and 
dried-up  fossil,  any  crabbed  and  cranky  old  maid — 
the  Tower  and  Westminster  Abbey  were  for  those 
who  had  nothing  better  to  do.  As  for  herself,  her 
horizon  just  now  was  bounded  by  primrose  wreaths 
and  fragrant  boxes,  and  the  promise  of  seeing  Barry 
in  May  1 

But  fate,  which  has  strange  things  in  store  for  all 
of  us,  had  this  in  store  for  little  Leila,  that  she  was 

338 


BARRT 

not  to  see  Barry  in  May,  and  the  reason  that  she  was 
not  to  see  him  was  Jerry  Tuckerman. 

Meeting  Mary  in  the  street  one  day  early  in  Feb- 
ruary, Jerry  had  said,  "  I  am  going  to  run  over  to 
London  this  week.  Shall  I  take  your  best  to 
Barry  ?  " 

Mary's  eyes  had  met  his  squarely.  "  Be  sure  you 
take  your  best,  Jerry,"  she  had  said. 

He  had  laughed  his  defiance.  "  Barry's  all  right 
— but  you've  got  to  give  him  a  little  rope,  Mary." 

When  he  had  left  her,  Mary  had  walked  on  slowly, 
her  heart  filled  with  foreboding.  Barry  was  not  like 
Jerry.  Jerry,  coarse  of  fiber,  lacking  temperament, 
would  probably  come  to  middle  age  safely — he  would 
never  be  called  upon  to  pay  the  piper  as  Barry  would 
for  dancing  to  the  tune  of  the  follies  of  youth. 

She  wrote  to  Gordon,  warning  him.  "  Keep  Barry 
busy,"  she  said.  "  Jerry  told  me  that  he  intended  to 
have  '  the  time  of  his  young  life ' — and  he  will  want 
Barry  to  share  it" 

Gordon  smiled  over  the  letter.  "  Poor  Mary,"  he 
told  Constance ;  "  she  has  carried  Barry  for  so  long 
on  her  shoulders,  and  she  can't  realize  that  he  is  at 
last  learning  to  stand  alone." 

But  Constance  did  not  smile.  **  We  never  could 
bear  Jerry  Tuckerman ;  he  always  made  Barry  do 
things." 

"  Nobody  can  make  me  do  things  when  I  don't 
want  to  do  them,"  said  Gordon  comfortably  and  prig- 

339 


CONTRART  MART 

gishly,  "  and  Barry  must  learn  that  he  can't  put  the 
blame  on  anybody's  shoulders  but  his  own." 

Constance  sighed.  She  did  not  quite  share  Gor- 
don's sense  of  security.  Barry  was  different.  He 
was  a  dear,  and  trying  so  hard ;  but  Jerry  had  always 
had  some  power  to  sway  him  from  his  best,  a  sinis- 
ter inexplicable  influence. 

Jerry,  arriving,  hung  around  Barry  for  several 
days,  tempting  him,  like  the  villain  in  the  play. 

But  Barry  refused  to  be  tempted.  He  was  busy — 
and  he  had  just  had  a  letter  from  Leila. 

"  I  simply  can't  run  around  town  with  you,  Tuck- 
erman,"  he  explained.  "  Holding  down  a  job  in  an 
office  like  this  isn't  like  holding  down  a  government 
job." 

"So  they've  put  your  nose  to  the  grindstone?" 

Jerry  grinned  as  he  said  it,  and  Barry  flushed. 

"  I  like  it,  Tuckerman ;  there's  something  ahead, 
and  Gordon  has  me  slated  for  a  promotion." 

But  what  did  a  promotion  mean  to  Jerry's  millions  ? 
And  Barry  was  good  company,  and  anyhow — oh,  he 
couldn't  see  Ballard  doing  a  steady  stunt  like  this. 

"  Motor  into  Scotland  with  me  next  week,"  he  in- 
sisted ;  "  get  a  week  off,  and  I'll  pick  up  a  gay  party. 
It's  a  bit  early,  but  we'll  stop  in  the  big  towns." 

Barry  shook  his  head. 

**  Leila  and  the  General  are  coming  over  in  May — 
she  wants  to  take  that  trip — and,  anyhow,  I  can't  get 
away." 

340 


BARRT 

"  Oh,  well,  wait  and  take  your  nice  little  ride  with 
Leila,"  Jerry  said,  good-naturedly  enough,  "but  don't 
tie  yourself  too  soon  to  a  woman's  apron  string,  Bal- 
lard— wait  till  you've  had  your  fling." 

But  Barry  didn't  want  a  fling.  He,  too,  was 
dreaming.  On  half-holidays  and  Sundays  he 
haunted  neighborhoods  where  there  were  rooms  to 
let.  And  when  one  day  he  chanced  on  a  sunshiny 
suite  where  a  pot  of  primroses  bloomed  in  the  win- 
dow, he  lingered  and  looked. 

"  If  they're  empty  a  month  from  now  I'll  take  them," 
he  said. 

"  A  guinea  down  and  I'll  keep  them  for  you,"  was 
the  smiling  response  of  the  pleasant  landlady. 

So  Barry  blushingly  paid  the  guinea,  and  began 
to  buy  little  things  to  make  the  rooms  beautiful — a 
bamboo  basket  for  flowers — a  Sheffield  tray — ^a 
quaint  tea-caddy — an  antique  footstool  for  Leila's 
littie  feet. 

Yet  there  were  moments  in  the  midst  of  his  elation 
when  some  chill  breath  of  fear  touched  him,  and  it 
was  in  one  of  these  moods  that  he  wrote  out  of  his 
heart  to  his  littie  bride. 

"  Sometimes,  when  I  think  of  you,  sweetheart,  I 
realize  how  little  there  is  in  me  which  is  deserving 
of  that  which  you  are  giving  me.  When  your  letters 
come,  I  read  them  and  think  and  think  about  them. 
And  the  thing  I  think  is  this  :  Am  I  going  to  be  able 
all  my  life  to  live  up  to  your  expectations  ?    Don't 

341 


CONTRART  MART 

expect  too  much,  dear  heart.  I  wonder  if  I  am  more 
cowardly  about  facing  life  than  other  men.  Now  and 
then  things  seem  to  loon>^up  in  front  of  me — great 
shadows  which  block  my  way — and  I  grow  afraid 
that  I  can't  push  them  out  of  your  path  and  mine. 
And  if  I  should  not  push  them,  what  then  ?  Would 
they  engulf  you,  and  should  1  be  to  blame  ?  " 

Mary  found  Leila  puzzling  over  this  letter.  "  It 
doesn't  sound  like  Barry,"  she  said,  in  a  little  fright- 
ened voice.     "  May  I  read  it  to  you,  Mary  ?  " 

Mary  had  stopped  in  for  tea  on  her  way  home  from 
the  office.     But  the  tea  waited. 

"  Barry  is  usually  so — hopeful,"  Leila  said,  when 
she  had  finished;  "somehow  I  can't  help — worrying." 

Mary  was  worried.  She  knew  these  moods. 
Barry  had  them  when  he  was  fighting  "  blue  devils." 
She  was  afraid — haunted  by  the  thought  of  Jerry. 
She  tried  to  speak  cheerfully. 

*'  You'll  be  going  over  soon,"  she  said,  "  and  then 
all  the  world  will  be  bright  to  him." 

Leila  hesitated.  "  I  wish,"  she  faltered,  "  that  I 
could  be  with  him  now  to  help  him — fight." 

Mary  gave  her  a  startled  glance.    Their  eyes  met. 

"  Leila,"  Mary  said,  with  a  little  gasp,  "  who  told 
you?" 

"  Barry" — the  tea  was  forgotten — "  before — before 
he  went  away."  The  vision  was  upon  her  of  that 
moment  when  he  had  knelt  at  her  feet  on  their 
bridal  night 

342 


BARRT 

Haltingly,  she  spoke  of  her  lover's  weakness. 
"  I've  wanted  to  ask  you,  Mary,  and  when  this  letter 
came,  I  just  had  to  ask.  If  you  think  it  would  be 
better — if  we  were  married,  if  I  could  make  a  home 
for  him." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  better  for  you." 

"  I  don't  want  to  think  about  myself,"  Leila  said, 
passionately ;  "  everybody  thinks  about  me.  It  is 
Barry  I  want  to  think  of,  Mary." 

Mary  patted  the  flushed  cheek.  "  Barry  is  a  for- 
tunate boy,"  she  said.  Then,  with  hesitation,"  Leila, 
when  you  knew,  did  it  make  a  difference?" 

"  Difference  ?  " 

"  In  your  feeling  for  Barry  ?  " 

And  now  the  child  eyes  were  woman  eyes.  "  Yes," 
she  said,  "  it  made  a  difference.  But  the  difference 
was  this — that  I  loved  him  more.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  can  explain  it  so  that  you  will  understand, 
Mary.  But  then  you  aren't  like  me.  You've  al- 
ways been  so  wonderful,  like  Barry.  But  you  see 
I've  never  been  wonderful.  I've  always  been  just  a 
litde  silly  thing,  pretty  enough  for  people  to  like, 
and  childish  enough  for  everybody  to  pet,  and  be- 
cause I  was  pretty  and  little  and  childish,  nobody 
seemed  to  think  that  I  could  be  anything  else.  And 
for  a  long  time  I  didn't  dream  that  Barry  was  in  love 
with  me.  I  just  knew  that  I— cared.  But  it  was 
the  kind  of  caring  that  didn't  expect  much  in  return. 
And  when  Barry  said  that  I  was  the  only  woman  in 

343 


CONTRART  MART 

the  world  for  him — I  had  the  feeling  that  it  was  a 
pleasant  dream,  and  that — that  some  day  I'd  wake 
up  and  find  that  he  had  made  a  mistake  and  that  he 
should  have  chosen  a  princess  instead  of  just  a  little 
goosie-girl.  But  when  I  knew  that  Barry  had  to 
fight,  everything  changed.  I  knew  that  I  could 
really  help.  More  than  the  princess,  perhaps,  be- 
cause you  see  she  might  not  have  cared  to  bother — 
and  she  might  not  have  loved  him  enough  to— over- 
look." 

"You  blessed  child,"  Mary  said  with  a  catch  in  her 
voice,  "you  mustn't  be  so  humble — it's  enough  to 
spoil  any  man." 

"  Not  Barry,"  Leila  said  ;  "  he  loves  me  because  1 
am  so  loving." 

Oh,  wisdom  of  the  little  heart.  There  might  be 
men  who  could  love  for  the  sake  of  conquest ;  there 
might  be  men  who  could  meet  coldness  with  ardor, 
and  affection  with  indifference.  Barry  was  not  one  of 
these.  The  sacred  fire  which  burned  in  the  heart  of 
his  sweet  mistress  had  lighted  the  flame  in  his  own. 
It  was  Leila's  love  as  well  as  Leila  that  he  wanted. 
And  she  knew  and  treasured  the  knowledge. 

It  was  when  Mary  left  that  she  said,  with  forced 
lightness,  "  You'll  be  going  soon,  and  what  a  sum- 
mer you  will  have  together." 

It  was  on  Leila's  lips  to  cry,  "  But  I  want  our  life 
together  to  begin  now.  What's  one  summer  in  a 
whole  life  of  love  ?  " 

344 


BARRT 

But  she  did  not  voice  her  cry.  She  kissed  Mary 
and  smiled  wistfully,  and  went  back  into  the  dusky 
room  to  dream  of  Barry — Barry  her  young  husband, 
with  whom  she  had  walked  in  her  little  yellow  gown 
over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

And  while  she  dreamed,  Barry,  in  Jerry  Tucker- 
man's  big  blue  car,  was  flying  over  other  hills,  and 
farther  away  from  Leila  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his 
life. 

It  was  as  Mary  had  feared.  Barry's  strength  in 
his  first  resistance  of  Jerry's  importunities  had  made 
him  over-confident,  so  that  when,  at  the  end  of  the 
month,  Jerry  had  returned  and  had  pressed  his 
claim,  Barry  had  consented  to  lunch  with  him. 

At  luncheon  they  met  Jerry's  crowd  and  Barry 
drank  just  one  glass  of  golden  sparkling  stufi. 

But  the  one  glass  was  enough  to  fire  his  blood — 
enough  to  change  the  aspect  of  the  world — enough 
to  make  him  reckless,  boisterous — enough  to  make 
him  consent  to  join  at  once  Jerry's  party  in  a  motor 
trip  to  Scotland. 

In  that  moment  the  world  of  work  receded,  the 
world  of  which  Leila  was  the  center  receded — the  life 
which  had  to  do  with  lodgings  and  primroses  and 
Sheffield  trays  was  faint  and  blurred  to  his  mental 
vision.  But  this  life,  which  had  to  do  with  laughter 
and  care-free  joyousness  and  forge tfulness,  this  was 
the  life  for  a  man  who  was  a  man. 

Jerry  was  saying,  "  There  will  be  the  three  of  us 
345 


CONTRART  MART 

and  the  chauffeur — and  we  will  take  things  in  ham- 
pers and  things  in  boxes,  and  things  in  bottles." 

Barry  laughed.  It  was  not  a  loud  laugh,  just  a 
light  boyish  chuckle,  and  as  he  rose  and  stood  with 
his  hand  resting  on  the  table,  many  eyes  were 
turned  upon  him.  He  was  a  handsome  young- 
American,  his  beautiful  blond  head  held  high. 
"You  mustn't  expect,"  he  said,  still  with  that  light 
laughter,  "that  I  am  going  to  bring  any  bottles. 
Only  thing  I've  got  is  a  tea-caddy.  Honest — a 
tea-caddy,  and  a  Sheffield  tray." 

Then  some   memory  assailing  him,  he   faltered, 
*  And  a  little  foolish  footstool." 

"Sit  down,"  Jerry  said.  There  was  something 
strangely  appealing  in  that  gay  young  figure  with 
the  shining  eyes.  In  spite  of  himself,  Jerry  felt  un- 
comfortable.    "  Sit  down,"  he  said. 

So  Barry  sat  down,  and  laughed  at  nothing,  and 
talked  about  nothing,  and  found  it  all  very  enchanting. 

He  packed  his  bag  and  left  a  note  for  Gordon  and 
when  he  piled  finally  with  the  others  into  Jerry's  car, 
he  was  ready  to  shout  with  them  that  it  was  a  long 
lane  which  had  no  turning,  and  that  work  was  a 
bore  and  would  always  be. 

And  so  the  ride  which  Leila  had  planned  for  her- 
self and  her  young  husband  became  a  wild  ride,  in 
which  these  young  knights  of  the  road  pursued  fan- 
tastic adventures,  with  memories  blank,  and  with 
consciences  soothed. 

346 


B^RRr 

For  days  they  rode,  stopping  at  various  inns  along 
the  way,  startling  the  staid  folk  of  the  villages  by 
their  laughter  late  into  the  night ;  making  boon  com- 
panions in  an  hour,  and  leaving  them  with  tears,  to 
forget  them  at  the  first  turn  of  the  corner. 

Written  as  old  romance,  such  things  seem  of  the 
golden  age ;  looked  upon  in  the  light  of  Barry's  fu- 
ture and  of  Leila's,  they  were  tragedy  unspeak- 
able. 

And  now  the  car  went  up  and  up,  to  come  down 
again  to  some  stretch  of  sand,  with  the  mountains 
looming  black  against  one  horizon,  the  sea  a  band 
of  sapphire  against  another. 

And  so,  fate  drawing  them  nearer  and  nearer, 
they  came  at  last  to  the  little  town  which  Leila  had 
described  in  her  letter. 

Going  in,  some  one  spoke  the  name,  and  Barry 
had  a  stab  of  memory.  Who  had  talked  of  narrow 
streets,  across  which  people  gossiped — and  shook 
hands  ? — who  had  spoken  of  having  tea  in  that  little 
shop? 

He  asked  the  question  of  his  companions,  "  Who 
called  this  a  story-book  town  ?  " 

They  laughed  at  him.    "  You  dreamed  it." 

Steadily  his  mind  began  to  work.  He  fumbled  in 
his  pocket,  and  found  Leila's  letter. 

Searching  through  it,  he  discovered  the  name  of 
the  little  place.  "  I  didn't  dream  it,"  he  announced 
triumphantly ;  ■'  my  wife  told  me." 

347 


CONTRART  MART 

"  Wake  up,"  Jerry  said,  "  and  thank  the  gods  that 
you  are  single." 

But  Barry  stood  swaying.  "  My  little  wife  told  me 
—Leila/" 

With  a  sudden  cry,  he  lurched  forward.  His  arm 
struck  the  arm  of  the  driver  beside  him.  The  car 
gave  a  sudden  turn.  The  streets  were  narrow — 
so  narrow  that  one  might  almost  shake  hands  across 
them ! 

And  there  was  a  crash  ! 

Jerry  was  not  hurt,  nor  the  other  adventurers. 
The  chauffeur  was  stunned.  But  Barry  was 
crumpled  up  against  the  stone  steps  of  one  of  the 
funny  little  houses,  and  lay  there  with  Leila's  letter 
all  red  under  him. 

It  was  Porter  and  Mary  who  told  Leila.  The 
General  had  begged  them  to  do  it.  "  I  can't,"  he 
had  said,  pitifully.  "  I've  faced  guns,  but  I  can't  face 
the  hurt  in  my  darling's  eyes." 

So  Mary's  arms  were  around  her  when  she  whis- 
pered to  the  child-wife  that  Barry  was — dead. 

Porter  had  faltered  first  something  about  an  acci- 
dent— that  the  doctors  were — afraid. 

Leila,  shaking,  had  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 
"  I  must  go  to  him,"  she  had  cried.  **  You  see,  I 
am  his   wife.     I  have  a  right  to  go." 

"  His  wife  f"  Of  all  things  they  had  not  expected 
this. 

348 


"  Yes,  we  have  been  married  a  year — we  ran 
away." 

"When,  dear?" 

"  Last  March — to  Rockville — and — and  we  were 
going  to  tell  everybody  the  next  day — and  then 
Barry  lost  his  place — and  we  couldn't." 

Oh,  poor  little  widow,  poor  little  child!  Mary 
drew  hev  close.  "  Leila,  Leila,"  she  whispered, 
"  dear  little  sister,  dear  little  girl,  we  must  love  and 
comfort  each  other." 

And  then  Leila  knew. 

But  they  did  not  tell  her  how  it  had  happened. 
The  details  of  that  last  ride  the  woman  who  loved 
him  need  never  know.  Barry  was  to  be  her  hero 
always. 


4jA 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

In  Which  Roger  Comes  Once  More  to  the  Tower 
Rooms;  and  in  Which  a  Duel  is  Fought  in 
Modern  Fashion. 

IT  was  Cousin  Patty  who  had  suggested  sending 
for  Roger.  "  He  can  look  after  me,  Mary.  If 
you  won't  let  me  go  home,  I  don't  want  you  to  have 
the  thought  of  me  to  burden  you." 

"  You  couldn't  be  a  burden.  And  I  don't  know 
what  Aunt  Isabelle  and  I  should  have  done  without 
you." 

She  began  to  cry  weakly,  and  Cousin  Patty,  com- 
forting her,  said  in  her  heart,  "  There  is  no  one  but 
Roger  who  can  say  the  right  things  to  her." 

As  yet  no  one  had  said  the  right  things.  It 
seemed  to  Mary  that  she  carried  a  wound  too  deep 
for  healing.  Gordon  had  softened  the  truth  as  much 
as  possible,  but  he  could  not  hide  it  from  her.  She 
knew  that  Barry,  her  boy  Barry,  had  gone  out  of  the 
world  defeated. 

It  was  Roger  who  helped  her. 

He  came  first  upon  her  as  she  sat  alone  in  the 
garden  by  the  fountain.  It  was  a  sultry  spring  day, 
and  heavy  clouds  hung  low  on  the  horizon.  Thin 
and  frail  in  her  black  frock,  she  rose  to  meet  him, 

350 


A  DUEL 

the  ghost  of  the  girl  who  had  once  bloomed  like  a 
flower  in  her  scarlet  wrap. 

Roger  took  her  hands  in  his. 

"  You  poor  litde  child,"  he  said ;  "  you  poor  little 
child." 

She  did  not  cry.  She  simply  looked  up  at  him, 
frozen-white.  "  Oh,  it  wasn't  fair  for  him  to  go — 
that  way.     He  tried  so  hard.     He  tried  so  hard." 

"  I  know.  And  it  was  a  great  fight  he  put  up, 
you  must  remember  that." 

"  But  to  fail — at  the  last." 

"You  mustn't  think  of  that.  Somehow  I  can  see 
Barry  still  fighting,  and  winning.  One  of  a  glori- 
ous company." 

"  A  glorious  company — Barry  ?  " 

"Yes.  Why  not?  We  are  judged  by  the  fight 
we  make,  not  by  our  victory." 

She  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Everybody  else  has 
been  sorry.  Nobody  else  could  seem  to  under- 
stand." 

"  Perhaps  I  understand,"  he  said,  "  because  I  know 
what  it  is  to  fight — and  fail." 

"  But  you  are  winning  now."  The  color  swept 
into  her  pale  cheeks.     "  Cousin  Patty  told  me." 

"  Yes.  You  showed  me  the  way — I  have  tried  to 
follow  it." 

"Oh,  how  ignorant  I  was,"  she  cried,  tempestu- 
ously, "  when  I  talked  to  you  of  life.  I  thought  I 
knew  everything.*' 

351 


CONTRART  MART 

"You  knew  enough  to  help  me.  If  I  can  help 
you  a  little  now  it  will  be  only  a  fair  exchange." 

It  helped  her  merely  to  have  him  there.  "You 
spoke  of  Barry's  still  fighting  and  winning.  Do  you 
think  that  one  goes  on  fighting  ?  " 

"Why  not?  It  would  seem  only  just  that  he 
should  conquer.  There  are  men  who  are  not 
tempted,  whose  goodness  is  negative.  Character 
is  made  by  resistance  against  evil,  not  by  lack  of 
knowledge  of  it.  And  the  judgments  of  men  are 
not  those  which  count  in  the  final  verdict." 

He  said  more  than  this,  breaking  the  bonds  of  her 
despair.  Others  had  pitied  Barry.  Roger  defended 
him.  She  began  to  think  of  her  brother,  not  as  her 
imagination  had  pictured  him,  flung  into  utter  dark- 
ness,  but  with  his  head  up — his  beautiful  fair  head, 
a  shining  sword  in  his  hand,  fighting  against  the 
powers  of  evil — stumbling,  falling,  rising  again. 

He  saw  her  relax  as  she  listened,  and  his  love  for 
her  taught  him  what  to  say. 

And  as  he  talked,  her  eyes  noted  the  change  in 
him. 

This  was  not  the  Roger  Poole  of  the  Tower  Rooms., 
This  was  a  Roger  Poole  who  had  found  himself.  She 
could  see  it  in  his  manner — she  could  hear  it  in  his 
voice,  it  shone  from  his  eyes.  Here  was  a  man 
who  feared  nothing,  not  even  the  whispers  that  had 
once  had  power  to  hurt. 

The  clouds  were  sweeping  toward  them,  hiding 
352 


A  DUEL 

the  blue ;  the  wind  whirled  the  dead  leaves  from  the 
paths,  and  stirred  the  budding  branches  of  the  hun- 
dred-leaved bush — touched  with  its  first  hint  of 
tender  green.  The  mist  from  the  fountain  was  like 
a  veil  which  hid  the  mocking  face  of  the  bronze  boy. 

But  Mary  and  Roger  had  no  eyes  for  these  warn- 
ings ;  each  was  famished  for  the  other,  and  this 
meeting  gave  to  Mary,  at  least,  a  sense  of  renewed 
life. 

She  spoke  of  her  future.  "  Constance  and  Gordon 
want  me  to  come  to  them.  But  I  hate  to  give  up 
my  work.  I  don't  want  to  be  discontented.  Yet  I 
dread  the  loneliness  here.  Did  you  ever  think  I 
should  be  such  a  coward  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  a  coward — you  are  a  woman — want- 
ing the  things  that  belong  to  you." 

She  sat  very  still.  "I  wonder — what  are  the 
things  which  belong  to  a  woman  ?  " 

"  Love — a  home — happiness." 

"  And  you  think  I  want  these  things  ?  " 

"  I  know  it." 

'How  do  you  know?" 

"  Because  you  have  tried  work — and  it  has  failed. 
You  have  tried  independence — and  it  has  failed.  You 
have  tried  freedom,  and  have  found  it  bondage." 

He  was  once  more  in  the  grip  of  the  dream  which 
he  had  dreamed  as  he  had  sat  with  Mary's  letter  in 
his  hand  on  Cousin  Patty's  porch.  If  she  would 
come  to  him  there  would   be  no  more  loneliness, 

353 


CONTRART  MART 

His  love  should  fill  her  life,  and  there  would  be,  too, 
the  love  of  his  people.  She  should  win  hearts  while 
he  won  souls.  If  only  she  would  care  enough  to 
come. 

It  was  the  fear  that  she  might  not  care  which 
suddenly  gripped  him.  Surely  this  was  not  the 
moment  to  press  his  demands  upon  her — when  sor- 
row lay  so  heavily  on  her  heart. 

So  blind,  and  cruel  in  his  blindness,  he  held  back 
the  words  which  rose  to  his  lips. 

"  Some  day  life  will  bring  the  things  which  belong 
to  you,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  pray  God  that  it  may 
bring  them  to  you  some  day." 

A  line  of  Browning's  came  into  her  mind,  and 
rang  like  a  knell — "  Some  day,  meaning  no  day." 

She  shivered  and  rose.  "  We  must  go  in  ;  there's 
rain  in  those  clouds,  and  wind." 

He  rose  also  and  stood  looking  down  at  her.  Her 
eyes  came  up  to  his,  her  clear  eyes,  shadowed  now 
by  pain.  What  he  might  have  said  to  her  in  another 
moment  would  have  saved  both  of  them  much  weari- 
ness and  heartache.  But  he  was  not  to  say  it,  for 
the  storm  was  upon  them  driving  them  before  it, 
slamming  doors,  banging  shutters  in  the  big  house 
as  they  came  to  it — a  miniature  cyclone,  in  its  swift 
descent. 

And  as  if  he  had  ridden  in  on  the  wings  of  the 
storm  came  Porter  Bigelow,  his  red  mane  blown  like 
a  flame  back  from  his  face,  his  long  coat  flapping. 

354 


A  DUEL 

He  stopped  short  at  the  sight  of  Roger. 

"Hello,  Poole,"  he  said;  "when  did  you  arrive?" 

"This  morning." 

They  shook  hands,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  a  wel- 
come in  Porter's  face. 

"  Pretty  stiff  storm,"  he  remarked,  as  the  three  of 
them  stood  by  the  drawing-room  window,  looking  out. 

The  rain  came  in  shining  sheets — the  lightning 
blazed — the  thunder  boomed. 

"  It  is  the  first  thunder-storm  of  the  season,"  Mary 
said.     "  It  will  wake  up  the  world." 

"  In  the  South,"  Roger  said,  "  the  world  is  awake. 
You  should  see  our  gardens." 

"  I  wish  I  could  ;  Cousin  Patty  asked  me  to  come." 

"  Will  you  ?  "  eagerly. 

"  There's  my  work." 

"  Take  a  holiday,  and  let  me  show  you  the  pines." 

Porter  broke  in  impatiently,  almost  insolently. 

"  Mary  needs  companionship,  not  pines.  I  think 
she  should  go  to  Constance.  Leila  and  the  General 
will  go  over  as  they  planned  in  May,  and  the 
Jeliffes " 

"  There's  more  than  a  month  before  May — which 
she  could  spend  with  us." 

Porter  stared.  This  was  a  new  Roger,  an  in- 
sistent, demanding  Roger.  He  spoke  coldly.  "  Con- 
stance wants  Mary  at  once.  I  don't  think  we  should 
say  anything  to  dissuade  her.  Aunt  Isabelle  and  I 
can  take  her  over." 

355 


CONTRART  MART 

And  now  Mary's  head  went  up. 

"  I  haven't  decided,  Porter."  She  was  fighting  for 
freedom. 

"  But  Constance  needs  you,  Mary — and  ypu  need 
her." 

"Oh,  no,"  Mary  said,  brokenly,  "Constance  doesn't 
need  me.  She  has  Gordon  and  the  baby.  Nobody 
needs  me — now." 

Roger  saw  the  quick  blood  flame  in  Porter's  face. 
He  felt  it  flame  in  his  own.  And  just  for  one  fleet- 
ing moment,  over  the  bowed  head  of  the  girl,  the 
challenging  eyes  of  the  two  men  met. 

Aunt  Frances,  who  came  over  with  Grace  in  the 
afternoon,  went  home  in  a  high  state  of  indignation. 

"  Why  Patty  Carew  and  Roger  Poole  should  take 
possession  of  Mary  in  that  fashion,"  she  said  to  her 
daughter  at  dinner,  "  is  beyond  me.  They  don't  be- 
long there,  and  it  would  have  been  in  better  taste  to 
leave  at  such  a  time." 

"  Mary  begged  Cousin  Patty  to  stay,"  Grace  said, 
"  and  as  for  Roger  Poole,  he  has  simply  made  Mary 
over.  She  has  been  like  a  stone  image  until  to- 
day." 

"  I  don't  see  any  difference,"  Aunt  Frances  said. 
"  What  do  you  mean,  Grace  ?  " 

'•  Oh,  her  eyes  and  the  color  in  her  cheeks,  and  the 
way  she  does  her  hair." 

"  The  way  she  does  her  hair  ?  "  Aunt  Frances  laid 
down  her  fork  and  stared. 

356 


A  DUEL 

"Yes.  Since  the  awful  news  came,  Mary  has 
seemed  to  lose  interest  in  everything.  She  adored 
Barry,  and  she's  never  going  to  get  over  it — not  en- 
tirely. I  miss  the  old  Mary."  Grace  stopped  to 
steady  her  voice.  "  But  when  I  went  up  with  her  to 
her  room  to  talk  to  her  while  she  dressed  for  dinner, 
she  put  up  her  hair  in  that  pretty  boyish  way  that  she 
used  to  wear  it,  and  it  was  all  for  RogV  Poole." 

"  Why  not  for  Porter  ?  " 

"  Because  she  hasn't  cared  how  she  looked,  and 
Porter  has  been  there  every  day.  He  has  been  there 
too  often." 

"  Do  you  think  Roger  will  try  to  get  her  to  marry 
him?" 

"Who  knows?  He's  dead  in  love  with  her.  But 
he  looks  upon  her  as  too  rare  for  the  life  he  leads. 
That's  the  trouble  with  men.  They  are  afraid  they 
can't  make  the  right  woman  happy,  so  they  ask  the 
wrong  one.  Now  if  we  women  could  do  the  propos- 
ing " 

"  Grace  I " 

"  Don't  look  at  me  in  that  shocked  way,  mother. 
I  am  just  voicing  what  every  woman  knows — that 
the  men  who  ask  her  aren't  the  ones  she  would  have 
picked  out  if  she  had  had  the  choice.  And  Mary 
will  wait  and  weary,  and  Roger  will  worship  and 
hang  back,  and  in  the  meantime  Porter  will  demand 
and  demand  and  demand — and  in  the  end  he'li 
probably  get  what  he  wants." 

357 


CONTRART  MART 

Aunt  Frances  beamed.     "  I  hope  so." 

"  But  Mary  will  be  miserable." 

"  Then  she'll  be  verj^  silly." 

Grace  sighed.  *'  No  woman  is  silly  who  asks  for 
the  best  Mother,  I'd  love  to  marry  a  man  with 
a  mission — I'd  like  to  go  to  the  South  Sea  Islands 
and  teach  the  natives,  or  to  Darkest  Africa — or  to 
China,  or  India,  anywhere  away  from  a  life  in  which 
there's  nothing  but  bridge,  and  shopping,  and  deadly 
dullness." 

She  was  in  earnest  now,  and  her  mother  saw  it. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  say  such  things,"  she 
quavered.  **  I  don't  see  how  you  can  talk  of  going 
to  such  impossible  places — away  from  me." 

Grace  cut  short  the  plaintive  wail. 

"  Of  course  I  have  no  idea  of  going,"  she  said, 
"  but  such  a  life  would  furnish  its  own  adventures  ;  I 
wouldn't  have  to  manufacture  them." 

It  was  with  the  wish  to  make  life  something  more 
than  it  was  that  Grace  asked  Roger  the  next  day, 
"  Is  there  any  work  here  in  town  like  yours  for  the 
boy — you  see  Mary  has  told  me  about  him." 

He  smiled.  "Everywhere  there  are  boys  and 
girls,  unawakened — if  only  people  would  look  for 
them  ;  and  with  your  knowledge  of  languages  you 
could  do  great  things  with  the  little  foreigners — turn 
a  bunch  of  them  into  good  citizens,  for  example." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  Reach  them  first  through  pictures  and  music— 
358 


A  DUEL 

then  through  their  patriotism.  Don't  let  them  learn 
politics  and  plunder  on  the  streets ;  let  them  find 
their  place  in  this  land  from  you,  and  let  them  hear 
from  you  of  the  God  of  our  fathers." 

Grace  felt  his  magnetism.  "I  wish  you  could 
go  through  the  streets  of  New  York  saying  such 
things." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  shall  not  come  to  the  city. 
My  place  is  found,  and  I  shall  stay  there  ;  but  I  have 
faith  to  believe  that  there  will  yet  be  a  Voice  to 
speak,  to  which  the  world  shall  listen." 

"Soon?" 

"  Everything  points  to  an  awakening.  People  are 
beginning  to  say,  *  Tell  us,'  where  a  few  years  ago 
they  said,  '  There  is  nothing  to  tell '  " 

"  I  see — it  will  be  wonderful  when  it  comes — I'm 
going  to  try  to  do  my  little  bit,  and  be  ready,  and 
when  Mary  comes  back,  she  shall  help  me." 

His  eyes  went  to  where  Mary  sat  between  Porter 
and  Aunt  Frances. 

"  She  may  never  come  back." 

"  She  must  be  made  to  come." 

"  Who  could  make  her  ?  " 

"  The  man  she  loves." 

She  flashed  a  sparkling  glance  at  him,  and 
rose. 

"  Come,  mother,"  she  said,  "  it  is  time  to  go." 
Then,  as  she  gave  Roger  her  hand,  she  smiled. 
"  Faint  heart,"  she  murmured,   "  don't   you    know 

359 


CONTRART  MART 

that  a  man  like  you,  if  he  tries,  can  conquer  the — - 
world  ?  " 

She  left  Roger  with  his  pulses  beating  madly.    What 

did  she  mean  ?     Did  she  think  that — Mary -.?^  lie 

went  up  to  the  Tower  Rooms  to  dress  for  djtt^., 
with  his  mind  in  a  whirl.  The  windows  wetfe  open 
and  the  warm  air  blew  in.  Looking  out,  he  could 
see  in  the  distance  the  shining  river — like  a  silver 
ribbon,  and  the  white  shaft  of  the  Monument,  which 
seemed  to  touch  the  sky.  But  he  saw  more  than 
that ;  he  saw  his  future  and  Mary's ;  again  he 
dreamed  his  dreams. 

If  he  had  hoped  for  a  moment  alone  that  night 
with  the  lady  of  his  heart,  he  was  doomed  to  disap- 
pointment, for  Leila  and  her  father  came  to  dinner. 
Leila  was  very  still  and  sweet  in  her  widow's  black, 
the  General  brooding  over  her.  And  again  Roger 
had  the  sense  that  in  this  house  of  sorrow  there  was 
no  place  for  love-making.  For  the  joy  that  might 
be  his — he  must  wait ;  eren  though  he  wearied  in 
the  waiting. 

And  it  was  while  he  waited  that  he  lunched  one 
day  with  Porter  Bigelow.  The  invitation  had  sur- 
prised him,  and  he  had  felt  vaguely  troubled  and  op- 
pressed by  the  thought  that  back  of  it  might  be 
some  motive  as  yet  unrevealed.  But  there  had  been 
nothing  to  do  but  accept,  and  at  one  o'clock  he  was 
at  the  University  Club. 

For  a  time  they  spoke  of  indifferent  things^  then 
360 


AGAIN    I    QUESTION    YOUR    RIGHl 


"<3r^< 


A  DUEL 

Porter  said,  bluntly,  "  I  am  not  going  to  beat  about 
the  bush,  Poole.  I've  asked  you  here  to  talk  about 
Mary  Ballard." 

"Yes?" 

"  You're  in  love  with  her  ?  " 

"  Yes — but  I  question  your  right  to  play  inquisi- 
tor." 

"  I  haven't  any  right,  except  my  interest  in  Mary. 
But  I  claim  that  my  interest  justifies  the  inquisi- 
tion." 

"  Perhaps." 

"  You  want  to  marry  her?  " 

Roger  shifted  his  position,  and  leaned  forward, 
meeting  Porter's  stormy  eyes  squarely.  "  Again  I 
question  your  right,  Bigelow." 

"  It  isn't  a  question  of  right  now,  Poole,  and  you 
know  it.  You're  in  love  with  her,  I'm  in  love  with 
her.  We  both  want  her.  In  days  past  men  settled 
such  things  with  swords  or  pistols.  You  and  I  are 
civilized  and  modem  ;  but  it's  got  to  be  settled  just 
the  same." 

"  Miss  Ballard  will  have  to  settle  it — not  you  or  I." 

"  She  can't  settle  it.  Mary  is  a  dreamer.  You 
capture  her  with  your  imagination — with  your  talk  of 
your  work — and  your  people  and  the  little  gardens, 
and  all  that.  And  she  sees  it  as  you  want  her  to 
see  it,  not  as  it  really  is.  But  I  know  the  deadly 
dullness,  the  awfulness.  Why,  man,  I  spent  a  winter 
down  there,  at  one  of  the  resorts  and  now  and  then 

16  K 


CONTRART  MART 

we  rode  through  the  country.  It  was  a  desert,  I  tell 
you,  Poole,  a  desert ;  it  is  no  place  for  a  woman." 

"  You  saw  nothing  but  the  charred  pines  and  the 
sand.     I  could  show  you  other  things." 

"  What,  for  example  ?  " 

"  I  could  show  you  an  awakened  people.  I  could 
show  you  a  community  throwing  off  the  shackles  of 
idleness  and  ignorance.  I  could  show  you  men 
once  tied  to  old  traditions,  meeting  with  eagerness 
the  new  ideals.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  more 
wonderful  than  such  an  awakening,  Bigelow.  But 
one  must  have  the  Vision  to  grasp  it.  And  faith  to 
believe  it.  It  is  the  dreamers,  thank  God,  who  see 
beyond  to-day  into  to-morrow.  I  haven't  wealth  or 
position  to  offer  Mary,  but  I  can  offer  her  a  world 
which  needs  her.  And  if  I  know  her,  as  I  think  I 
do,  she  will  care  more  for  my  world  than  for  yours." 

He  did  not  raise  his  voice,  but  Porter  felt  the  force 
of  his  restrained  eloquence,  as  he  knew  Mary  would 
feel  it  if  it  were  applied  to  her. 

And  now  he  shot  his  poisoned  dart. 

"  At  first,  perhaps.  But  when  it  came  to  building 
a  home,  there'd  be  always  the  stigma  of  your  past, 
and  she's  a  proud  little  thing,  Poole." 

Roger  winced.  "  My  past  is  buried.  It  is  my 
future  of  which  we  must  speak."^ 

"  You  can't  bury  a  past.  You  haven't  even  a 
pulpit  to  preach  from" 

Roger  pushed  back  his  chair.  "  I  am  tempted  to 
362 


A  DUEL 

wish,"  his  voice  was  grim,  "  that  we  were  not  quite 
so  civilized,  not  quite  so  modern.  Pistols  or  swords 
would  seem  an  easier  way  than  this." 

*'  I'm  fighting  for  Mary.  You've  got  to  let  go. 
None  of  her  friends  want  it — Gordon  would  never 
consent." 

It  seemed  to  Roger  that  all  the  whispers  which 
nad  assailed  him  in  the  days  of  long  ago  were  rush- 
ing back  upon  him  in  a  roaring  wave  of  sound. 

He  rose,  white  and  shaken.  "  Do  you  call  it 
victory  when  one  man  stabs  another  through  the 
heart  ?  Well,  if  this  is  your  victory,  Bigelow — you 
are  welcome  to  it" 


3H 


CHAPTER  XXV 

In   Which  Mary  Bids  Fareivell  to  the  Old  Life  ;  and 
in  Which  She  Finds  Happiness  on  the  High  Seas. 

CONTRARY  MARY  was  Contrary  Mary  no 
longer.  Since  Roger  had  gone,  taking  Cousin 
Patty  with  him — gone  without  the  word  to  her  for 
which  she  had  waited,  she  had  submitted  to  Gordon's 
plans  for  her,  and  to  Aunt  Frances'  and  Porter's  ex- 
ecution of  them. 

Only  to  Grace  did  she  show  any  signs  of  her  old 
rebellion. 

"  Did  you  ever  think  that  I  should  be  beaten, 
Grace  ?  "  she  said,  pitifully.  "  Is  that  the  way  with 
all  women  ?  Do  we  reach  out  for  so  much,  and 
then  take  what  we  can  get  ?  " 

Grace  pondered.  "  Things  tie  us  down,  but  we 
don't  have  to  stay  tied — and  I  am  beginning  to  see 
a  way  out  for  myself,  Mary." 

She  told  of  her  talk  with  Roger  and  of  her  own 
strenuous  desire  to  help  ;  but  she  did  not  tell  what 
she  had  said  to  him  at  the  last.  There  was  some- 
thing here  which  she  could  not  understand.  Mary 
persistently  refused  to  talk  about  him.  Even  now 
she  shifted  the  topic. 

364 


THE  HIGH  SEAS 

"I  don't  want  to  strive,"  she  said,  "not  even  for 
the  sake  of  others.  I  want  to  rest  for  a  thousand 
years — and  sleep  for  the  next  thousand." 

And  this  from  Mary,  buoyant,  vivid  Mary,  with 
her  almost  boyish  strength  and  energy. 

The  big  house  was  to  be  closed.  Aunt  Isabelle 
would  go  with  Mary.  Susan  Jenks  and  Pittiwitz 
would  be  domiciled  in  the  kitchen  wing,  with  a. 
friend  of  Susan's  to  keep  them  company. 

Mary,  wandering  on  the  last  day  through  the 
Tower  Rooms,  thought  of  the  night  when  Roger 
Poole  had  first  come  to  them.  And  now  he  would 
never  come  again. 

She  had  not  been  able  to  understand  his  abrupt 
departure.  Yet  there  had  been  nothing  to  resent — 
he  had  been  infinitely  kind,  sympathetic,  strong, 
helpful.  If  she  missed  something  from  his  manner 
which  had  been  there  on  the  day  of  his  arrival,  she 
told  herself  that  perhaps  it  had  not  been  there,  that 
her  own  joy  in  seeing  him  had  made  her  imagine  a 
like  joy  in  his  attitude  toward  her. 

Cousin  Patty  had  cried  over  her,  kissed  her,  and 
protested  that  she  could  not  bear  to  go. 

''  But  Roger  thinks  it  is  best,  my  dear.  He  is 
needed  at  home." 

It  seemed  plausible  that  he  might  be  needed,  yet 
in  the  back  of  Mary's  mind  was  a  doubt.  What 
had  sent  him  away  ?  She  was  haunted  by  the  feel- 
ing that  some  sinister  influence  had  separated  them. 

365 


CONTRART  MART 

A  pitiful  little  figure  in  black,  she  made  the  tour 
of  the  empty  rooms  with  Pittiwitz  mewing  plaintively 
at  her  heels.  The  little  cat,  with  the  instinct  of  her 
kind,  felt  the  atmosphere  of  change.  Old  rugs  on 
which  she  had  sprawled  were  rolled  up  and  reeking 
with  moth  balls.  The  little  white  bed,  on  which  she 
had  napped  unlawfully,  was  stripped  to  the  mattress 
The  cushions  on  which  she  had  curled  were  packed- 
away — the  fire  was  out — ^the  hearth  desolate. 

Susan  Jenks,  coming  up,  found  Mary  with  the 
little  cat  in  her  lap. 

"  Oh,  honey  child,  don't  cry  like  that." 

"  Oh,  Susan,  Susan,  it  will  never  be  the  same 
again,  never  the  same." 

And  now  once  more  in  the  garden,  the  rosea 
bloomed  on  the  hundred-leaved  bush,  once  more  the 
fountain  sang,  and  the  little  bronze  boy  laughed 
through  a  veil  of  mist — but  there  were  no  gay  voices 
in  the  garden,  no  lovers  on  the  stone  seat.  Susan 
Jenks  kept  the  paths  trim  and  watered  the  flowers, 
and  Pittiwitz  chased  butterflies  or  stretched  herself  in 
the  sun,  lazily  content,  forgetting,  gradually,  those 
who  had  for  a  time  made  up  her  world. 

But  Mary,  on  the  high  seas,  could  not  forget  what 
she  had  left  behind.  It  was  not  Susan  Jenks,  it  was 
not  Pittiwitz,  it  was  not  the  garden  which  called 
her  back,  although  these  had  their  part  in  her 
regrets — it  was  the  old  life,  the  life  which  had 
belonged  to  her  childhood  and  her  girlhood,  the  life 

366 


THE  HIGH  SEAS 

which  had  been  lived  with  her  mother  and  father  and 
Constance — and  Barry. 

As  she  lay  listless  in  her  deck  chair,  she  could  see 
nothing  in  her  future  which  would  match  the 
happiness  of  the  past  The  days  lived  in  the  old 
house  had  never  been  days  of  great  prosperity ;  her 
father  had,  indeed,  often  been  weighed  down  with 
care — there  had  been  times  of  heavy  anxieties — but 
there  had  been  between  them  all  the  bond  of  deep 
affection,  of  mutual  dependence. 

In  Gordon's  home  there  would  be  splendors  far 
beyond  any  she  had  known,  there  would  be  ease 
and  luxury,  and  these  would  be  shared  with  her 
freely  and  ungrudgingly,  yet  to  a  nature  like  Mary 
Ballard's  such  things  meant  little.  The  real  things 
in  life  to  her  were  love  and  achievement ;  all  else 
seemed  stale  and  unprofitable. 

Of  course  there  would  be  Constance  and  the  baby. 
On  the  hope  of  seeing  them  she  lived.  Yet  in  a 
sense  Gordon  and  the  baby  stood  between  herself 
and  Constance — they  absorbed  her  sister,  satisfied 
her,  so  that  Mary's  love  was  only  one  drop  added  to 
a  full  cup. 

It  was  while  she  pondered  over  her  future  that 
Mary  was  moved  to  write  to  Roger  Poole.  The 
mere  putting  of  her  thoughts  on  paper  would  ease 
her  loneliness.  She  would  say  what  she  felt,  frankly, 
freely,  and  when  the  little  letters  were  finished,  if  her 
mood  changed  she  need  not  send  them. 


CONTRART  MART 

So  she  began  to  scribble,  setting  down  each  day 
the  thoughts  which  clamored  for  expression. 

Porter  complained  that  now  she  was  always  writ- 
ing. 

"  I'd  rather  write  than  talk,"  Mary  said,  wearily, 
and  at  last  he  let  the  matter  drop. 

In  Mid-Sea. 
Dear  Friend  o'  Mine  : 

You  asked  me  to  write,  and  you  will  think  that 
I  have  more  than  kept  my  promise  when  you  get  this 
journal  of  our  days  at  sea.  But  it  has  seemed  to  me 
that  you  might  enjoy  it  all,  just  as  if  you  were  with 
us,  instead  of  down  among  your  sand-hills,  with 
your  sad  children  (are  they  really  sad  now  ?)  and 
Cousin  Patty's  wedding  cakes. 

There's  quite  a  party  of  us.  Leila  and  her  father 
and  the  Jeliffes  and  Colin  kept  to  their  original 
plan  of  coming  in  May,  and  we  decided  it  would  be 
best  to  cross  at  the  same  time,  so  there's  Aunt 
Frances  and  Grace  and  Aunt  Isabelle,  and  Porter — 
and  me — ten  of  us.  If  you  and  Cousin  Patty  were 
here,  you'd  round  out  a  dozen.  I  wish  you  were 
here.  How  Cousin  Patty  would  enjoy  it — with  her 
lovely  enthusiasms,  and  her  interest  in  everything. 
Do  give  her  much  love.  I  shall  write  to  her  when  I 
reach  London,  for  I  know  she  will  be  traveling  with 
us  in  spirit ;  she  said  she  was  going  to  live  in  Eng- 
land by  proxy  this  summer,  and  I  shall  help  her  all 

368 


THE  HIGH  SEAS 

I  can  by  sending  pictures,  and  you  must  tell  her  the 
books  to  read. 

To  think  that  I  am  on  my  way  to  the  London  of 
your  Dick  Whittington  I  I  call  him  yours  because 
you  made  me  really  see  him  for  the  first  time. 

"  There  was  he  an  orphan^  O,  a  little  lad  alone ^^ 

And  I  am  to  hear  all  the  bells,  and  to  see  the 
things  I  have  alv/ays  longed  to  seel  Yet — and  I 
haven't  told  this  to  any  one  but  you,  Roger  Poole^ 
the  thought  doesn't  bring  one  little  bit  of  gladness — 
it  isn't  London  that  I  want,  or  England.  I  want 
my  garden  and  my  old  big  house,  and  things  as 
they  used  to  be. 

But  I  am  sailing  fast  away  from  it — the  old  life  into 
the  new  I 

So  far  we  have  had  fair  weather.  It  is  always 
bes*:  to  speak  of  the  weather  first,  isn't  it  ? — so  that 
we  can  have  our  minds  free  for  other  things.  It 
hasn't  been  at  all  rough ;  even  Leila,  who  isn't  a 
good  sailor,  has  been  able  to  stay  on  deck  and  people 
are  so  much  interested  in  her.  She  seems  such  a 
child  for  her  widow's  black.  Oh,  what  children  they 
were,  my  boy  Barry  and  his  little  wife,  and  yet  they 
were  man  and  woman,  too.  Leila  has  been  letting 
me  see  some  of  his  letters  ;  he  showed  her  a  side 
which  he  never  revealed  to  me,  but  I  am  not 
jealous.  I  am  only  glad  that,  for  her,  my  boy  Barry 
became  a  man. 

But  I  am  going  to  try  to  keep  the  sadness  oat  of 
369 


CONTRART  MARJ 

my  scribbles  to  you,  only  now  and  then  it  will  creep 
in,  and  you  must  forgive  it,  because  you  see  it  isn't 
easy  to  think  that  we  are  all  here  who  loved  him, 
and  he,  who  loved  so  much  to  be  with  us,  is  some- 
where— oh,  where  is  he,  Roger  Poole,  in  that  vast 
infinity  which  stretches  out  and  out,  beyond  the  sea, 
beyond  the  sky,  into  eternity  ? 

All  day  I  have  been  lying  in  my  deck  chair,  and 
have  let  the  world  go  by.  It  is  clear  and  cool,  and 
the  sea  rises  up  like  a  wall  of  sapphire.  Last  night 
we  seemed  to  plough  through  a  field  of  gold.  The 
world  is  really  a  lovely  place,  the  big  outside  world, 
but  it  isn't  the  outside  world  which  makes  our  hap- 
piness, it  is  the  world  within  us,  and  when  the  heart 
is  tired 

But  now  I  must  talk  of  some  one  else  besides  my- 
self. 

Shall  I  tell  you  of  Delilah?  She  attracts  much 
attention,  with  her  gracious  manner  and  her  won- 
derful clothes.  AH  the  people  are  crazy  about  her. 
They  think  she  is  English,  and  a  duchess  at  least. 
Colin  is  as  pleased  as  Punch  at  the  success  he  has 
made  of  her,  and  he  just  stands  aside  and  watches 
her,  and  flickers  his  pale  lashes  and  smiles.  Last 
night  she  danced  some  of  the  new  dances,  and  her 
tango  is  as  stately  as  a  minuet.  She  and  Porter 
danced  together — and  everybody  stopped  to  look  at 
them.  The  gossip  is  going  the  rounds  that  they  are 
engaged.     Oh,  I  wish  they  were — I  wish  they  were  I 

370 


THE  HIGH  SEAS 

It  would  be  good  for  him  to  meet  his  match* 
Delilah  could  hold  her  own ;  she  wouldn't  let  him 
insist  and  manage  until  she  was  positively  mesmer- 
ized, as  I  am.  Delilah  has  such  a  queenly  way  of 
ruling  her  world.  All  the  men  on  board  trail  after 
her.  But  she  makes  most  of  them  worship  from 
afar.  As  for  the  women,  she  picks  the  best,  instinc- 
tively, and  the  ice  which  seems  congealed  around 
the  heart  of  the  average  Britisher  melts  before  her 
charm,  so  that  already  she  is  playing  bridge  with 
the  proper  people,  and  having  tea  with  the  inner 
circle.  Even  with  these  she  seems  to  assume  an  air 
of  remoteness,  which  seems  to  set  her  apart — and  it 
is  this  air,  Grace  says,  which  conquers. 

When  people  aren't  coupling  Porter's  name  with 
Delilah's,  they  are  coupling  it  with  Grace's.  You 
should  see  our  '*  red-headed  woodpeckers,"  as  poor 
Barry  used  to  call  them.  When  they  promenade, 
Grace  wears  a  bit  of  a  black  hat  that  shows  all  of 
her  glorious  hair,  and  Porter's  cap  can't  hide  his 
crown  of  glory.  At  first  people  thought  they  were 
brother  and  sister,  but  since  it  is  known  that  they 
aren't  I  can  see  that  everybody  is  puzzled. 

It  is  all  like  a  play  passing  in  front  of  me.  There 
are  charming  English  people— charming  Americans 
and  some  uncharming  ones.  Oh,  why  don't  we, 
who  began  in  such  simplicity,  try  to  remain  a  simple 
people?  It  just  seems  to  me  sometimes  as  if  every- 
body on  board  is  trying  to  show  off.     The  rich  ones 

371 


CONTRART  MART 

are  trying  to  display  their  money,  and  the  intellect 
tual  ones  their  brains.  Is  there  any  real  difference 
between  the  new-rich  and  the  new-cultured,  Roger 
Poole  ?  One  tells  about  her  three  motor  cars,  and 
the  other  tells  about  her  three  degrees.  It  is  all 
tiresome.  The  world  is  a  place  to  have  things  and 
to  know  things,  but  if  the  having  them  and  know- 
ing them  makes  them  so  important  that  you  have 
to  talk  about  them  all  the  time  there's  something 
wrong. 

That's  the  charm  of  Grace.  She  has  money  and 
position — and  I've  told  you  how  she  simply  carried 
off  all  the  honors  at  college ;  she  paints  wonder- 
fully, and  her  opinions  are  all  worth  listening  to. 
But  she  doesn't  throw  her  knowledge  at  you.  She 
is  interested  in  people,  and  puts  books  where  they 
belong.  She  is  really  the  only  one  whom  I  welcome 
without  any  misgivings,  except  darling  Aunt  Isa- 
belle.  The  others  when  they  come  to  talk  to  me 
are  either  too  sad  or  too  energetic. 

Doesn't  all  that  sound  as  if  I  were  a  selfish  little 
pig?  Well,  some  day  I  shall  enjoy  them  all — but 
now — my  heart  is  crying — and  Leila,  with  her  little 
white  face,  hurts.  Mrs,  Barry  Ballard  1  Shall  I  ev  er 
get  used  to  hearing  her  called  that?  It  seems  to 
set  her  apart  from  little  Leila  Dick,  so  that  when  I 
hear  people  speak  to  her,  I  am  always  startled  and 
surprised. 

And  now — what  are  you  doing?  Are  you  still 
372 


THE  HIGH  SEAS 

planting  little  gardens,  and  talking  to  your  boy- 
talking  to  your  sad  people  ?  Cousin  Patty  has  told 
me  of  your  letter  to  your  bishop,  who  was  so  kind 
during  your — trouble — and  of  his  answer — and  of 
your  hope  that  some  day  you  may  have  a  little 
church  in  the  sand-hills,  and  preach  instead  of  teach. 

Surely  that  would  make  all  of  your  dreams  come 
true,  all  of  our  dreams,  for  I  have  dreamed  too — 
that  this  might  come. 

Sometimes  as  I  lie  here,  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  I 
seem  to  see  you  in  that  circle  of  young  pines,  and 
I  pretend  that  I  am  listening ;  that  you  are  saying 
things  to  me,  as  you  say  them  to  those  poor  people 
in  the  pines — and  now  and  then  I  can  make  myself 
believe  that  you  have  really  spoken,  that  your  voice 
has  reached  across  the  miles.  And  so  I  have  your 
little  sermons  all  to  myself — out  here  at  sea,  with 
all  the  blue  distance  between  us — but  I  listen,  listen — 
just  the  same. 

In  the  Fog. 
Out  of  the  sunshine  of  yesterday  came  the  heavy 
mists  of  to-day.  The  sea  slips  under  us  in  silver 
swells.  Everybody  is  wrapped  to  the  chin,  and 
Porter  has  just  stopped  to  ask  me  if  I  want  some- 
thing hot  sent  up.  I  told  him  "  no,"  and  sent  him 
on  to  Leila.  I  like  this  still  world,  and  the  gray 
ghosts  about  the  deck.  Delilah  has  just  sailed  by 
in  a  beautiful  smoke-colored  costume — with  hei  in 


V 

CONTRART  MART 

evitable  knot  of  heliotrope — a  phantom  lady,  like  a 
lovely  dream. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  a  very  distinguished  and  much 
titled  gentleman  wants  to  marry  Delilah,  and  that 
he  is  waiting  now  for  her  answer?  Porter  thinks 
she  will  say  "  yes."  But  Leila  and  I  don't.  We  are 
sure  that  she  will  find  her  fate  in  Colin.  He  domi- 
nates her  ;  he  dives  beneath  the  surface  and  brings 
up  the  real  Delilah,  not  the  cool,  calculating  Delilah 
that  we  once  knew,  but  the  lovely,  gracious  lady 
that  she  now  is.  It  is  as  if  he  had  put  a  new  soul 
inside  of  the  worldly  shell  that  was  once  Delilah, 
Yet  there  is  never  a  sign  between  them  of  anything 
but  good  comradeship.  Grace  says  that  Colin  is 
following  the  fashionable  policy  of  watchful  waiting 
— but  I'm  not  sure.  I  fancy  that  they  will  both  w^ake 
up  suddenly  to  what  they  feel,  and  then  it  will  be 
quite  wonderful  to  see  them. 

Porter  doesn't  believe  in  the  waking-up  process. 
He  says  that  love  is  a  growth.  That  people  must 
know  each  other  for  years  and  years,  so  that  each 
can  understand  the  faults  and  virtues  of  the  other. 
But  to  me  it  seems  that  love  is  a  flame,  illumining 
everything  in  a  moment. 

Porter  came  while  I  was  writing  that — and  made 
me  walk  with  him  up  and  down,  up  and  down.  He 
was  afraid  I  might  get  chilled.  Of  course  he  means 
to  be  kind,  but  I  don't  like  to  have  him  tell  me  that 
I  must  "make  an  effort' — it  gives  me  a  sort  of 

374 


THE  HIGH  SEAS 

Mrs.  Dombey  feeling.     I  don't  wonder  that  she  just 
curled  up  and  died  to  get  rid  of  the  trouble  of  living. 

I  knew  while  I  walked  with  Porter  that  people 
were  wondering  who  I  was — in  my  long  black  coat, 
with  my  hair  all  blown  about.  I  fancy  that  they 
won't  link  my  name,  sentimentally,  with  the  Knight 
of  the  Auburn  Crest.  Beside  Grace  and  Delilah  I 
look  like  a  little  country  girl.  But  I  don't  care — my 
thick  coat  is  comfortable,  and  my  little  soft  hat  stays 
on  my  head,  which  is  all  one  needs,  isn't  it  ?  But  as 
I  write  this  I  wonder  where  the  girl  is  who  used  to 
like  pretty  clothes.  Do  you  remember  the  dress  I 
wore  at  Constance's  wedding  ?  I  was  thinking  to- 
day of  it — and  of  Leila  hippity-hopping  up  the  stairs 
in  her  one  pink  slipper.  Oh,  how  far  away  those 
days  seem — and  how  strong  I  felt — and  how  ready 
I  was  to  face  the  world,  and  now  I  just  want  to 
crawl  into  a  corner  and  watch  other  people  live. 

Leila  is  much  braver  than  L  She  takes  a  little 
walk  every  morning  with  her  father,  and  another 
walk  every  afternoon  with  Porter — and  she  is  always 
talking  to  lonesome  people  and  sick  people,  and  all 
the  while  she  wears  a  little  faint  shining  smile,  like 
an  angel's.  Yet  I  used  to  be  quite  scornful  of  Leila, 
even  while  I  loved  her.  I  thought  she  was  so 
sweetly  and  weakly  feminine  ;  yet  she  is  steering  her 
little  ship  through  stormy  waters,  while  I  have  lost 
my"  rudder  and  compass,  and  all  the  other  things 
that  a  mariner  needs  in  a  time  of  storm. 

375 


CONTRART  MART 

Before  the  storm. 

The  fog  still  hangs  over  us,  and  we  seem  to  ride 
on  the  surface  of  a  dead  sea.  Last  night  there  was 
no  moon  and  to-day  Aunt  Frances  has  not  appeared. 
Even  Delilah  seems  to  feel  depressed  by  the  silence 
and  the  stillness — not  a  sound  but  the  beat  of  the 
engines  and  the  hoarse  hoot  of  the  horns.  This 
paper  is  damp  as  I  write  upon  it,  and  blots  the  ink, 
but — I  sha'n't  rewrite  it,  because  the  blots  will  make 
you  see  me  sitting  here,  with  drops  of  moisture 
clinging  to  my  coat  and  to  my  little  hat,  and  making 
my  hair  curl  up  in  a  way  that  it  never  does  in  dry 
weather. 

I  wonder,  if  you  were  here,  if  you  would  seem  a 
ghost  like  all  the  others.  Nothing  is  real  but  my 
thoughts  of  the  things  that  used  to  be.  I  can't 
believe  that  I  am  on  my  way  to  London,  and  that  I 
am  going  to  live  with  Constance,  and  go  sightseeing 
with  Aunt  Frances  and  Grace,  and  give  up  my  plans 
for  the — Great  Adventure.  Aunt  Isabelle  sat  beside 
me  this  morning,  and  we  talked  about  it.  She  will 
stay  with  Aunt  Frances  and  Grace,  and  we  shall  see 
each  other  every  day.  I  couldn't  quite  get  along  at 
all  if  it  were  not  for  Aunt  Isabelle — she  is  such  a 
mother-person,  and  she  doesn't  make  me  feel,  as  the 
rest  of  them  do,  that  I  must  be  brave  and  courageous. 
She  just  pats  my  hand  and  says,  "  It's  going  to  be  all 
right,  Mary  dear — it  is  going  to  be  all  right,"  aod 
presently  I  begin  to  feel  that  it  is ;  she  has  suclr  4 

376 


THE  HIGH  SEAS 

fashion  of  ignoring  the  troublesome  things  of  this 
world,  and  simply  looking  ahead  to  the  next.  She 
told  me  once  that  heaven  would  mean  to  her,  first  of 
all,  a  place  of  beautiful  sounds — and  second  it  would 
mean  freedom.  You  see  she  has  always  been  domi- 
nated by  Aunt  Frances,  poor  thing. 

Do  you  remember  how  I  used  to  talk  of  freedom  ? 
But  now  I'm  to  be  a  bird  in  a  cage.  It  will  be  a 
gilded  cage,  of  course.  Even  Grace  says  that 
Constance's  home  is  charming — great  lovely  rooms 
and  massive  furniture ;  and  when  we  begin  to  go 
again  into  society,  I  am  to  be  introduced  to  lots  of 
grand  folk,  and  perhaps  presented. 

And  I  am  to  forget  that  I  ever  worked  in  a  grubby 
government  office — indeed  I  am  to  forget  that  I  ever 
worked  at  all. 

And  I  am  to  forget  all  of  my  dreams.  I  am  to 
change  from  the  Mary  Ballard  who  wanted  to  do 
things  to  the  Mary  Ballard  who  wants  them  done  for 
her.  Perhaps  when  you  see  me  again  I  shall  be 
nice  and  clinging  and  as  sweetly  feminine  as  you 
used  to  want  me  to  be — Roger  Poole. 

The  mists  have  cleared,  and  there's  a  cloud 
on  the  horizon — I  can  hear  people  saying  that 
it  means  a  storm.  Shall  I  be  afraid?  I  wonder. 
Do  you  remember  the  storm  that  came  that 
day  in  the  garden  and  drove  us  in  ?  I  wonder 
if  we  shall  ever  be  together  again  in  the  dear  old 
garden  ? 

377 


CONTRART  MART 

After  the  storm. 

Last  night  the  storm  waked  us.  It  was  a  dread- 
ful storm,  with  the  wind  booming,  and  the  sea  all 
whipped  up  into  a  whirlpool. 

But  I  wasn't  frightened,  although  everybody  was 
awake,  and  there  was  a  feeling  that  something  might 
happen.  I  asked  Porter  to  take  me  on  deck,  but  he 
said  that  no  one  was  allowed,  and  so  we  just  curled  up 
on  chairs  and  sofas  and  waited  either  for  the  storm  to 
end  or  for  the  ship  to  sink.  •  If  you've  ever  been  in  a 
storm  at  sea,  you  know  the  feeling — that  the  next  min- 
ute may  bring  calm  and  safety,  or  terror  and  death. 

Porter  had  tucked  a  rug  around  me,  and  I  lay 
there,  looking  at  the  others,  wondering  whether  if 
an  accident  happened  Delilah  would  face  death  as 
gracefully  as  she  faces  everything  else.  Leila  was 
very  white  and  shivery  and  clung  to  her  father ;  it 
is  at  such  times  that  she  seems  such  a  child. 

Aunt  Frances  was  fussy  and  blamed  everybody 
from  the  captain  down  to  Aunt  Isabelle — as  if  they 
could  control  the  warring  elements.  Surely  it  is  a 
case  of  the  "  ruling  passion." 

But  while  I  am  writing  these  things,  I  am  putting 
off,  and  putting  off  and  putting  off  the  story  of  what 
happened  after  the  storm — not  because  I  dread  to 
tell  it,  but  because  I  don't  know  quite  how  to  tell  it 
It  involves  such  intimate  things — yet  it  makes  all 
things  clear,  it  makes  everything  so  beautitully  clear, 
Roger  Poole 

378 


THE  HIGH  SEAS 

It  was  after  the  wind  died  down  a  bit  that  I  made 
Porter  take  me  up  on  deck.  The  moon  was  flying 
through  the  ragged  clouds,  and  the  water  was  a  wild 
sweep  of  black  and  white.  It  was  all  quite  spectral 
and  terrifying  and  I  shivered.  And  then  Porter  said, 
"  Mary,  we'd  better  go  down." 

And  I  said,  "  It  wasn't  fear  that  made  me  shiver, 
Porter.  It  was  just  the  thought  that  living  is  worse 
than  dying." 

He  dropped  my  arm  and  looked  down  at  me. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  what's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said.  "It  is  just  that  my 
courage  is  all  gone — I  can't  face  things." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  know — I've  lost  my  grip,  Porter." 

And  then  he  asked  a  question.  **  Is  it  because  of 
Barry,  Mary?" 

"  Some  of  it." 

"And  the  rest?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you." 

We  walked  for  a  long  time  after  that,  and  I  was 
holding  all  the  time  tight  to  his  arm — for  it  wasn't 
easy  to  walk  with  that  sea  on — when  suddenly  he 
laid  his  hand  over  mine. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  I've  got  to  tell  you.  I  can't 
keep  it  back  and  feel — honest.  I  don't  know  whether 
you  want  Roger  Poole  in  your  life — I  don't  know 
whether  you  care.  But  I  want  you  to  be  happy, 
And  it  was  I  who  sent  him  away  from  you." 

379 


CONTRART  MART 

And  now,  Roger  Poole,  what  can  I  say  ?  What 
can  any  woman  say?  I  only  know  this,  that  as  1 
write  this  the  sun  shines  over  a  blue  sea,  and  that 
the  world  is — different.  There  are  still  things  in  my 
heart  which  hurt — but  there  are  things,  too,  which 
make  it  sing  I  Mary. 

When  Mary  Ballard  came  on  deck  on  the  morning 
after  the  storm,  everybody  stared.  Where  was  the 
girl  of  yesterday — the  frail  white  girl  who  had  moped 
so  listlessly  in  her  chair,  scribbling  on  little  bits  of 
paper?  Here  was  a  fair  young  beauty,  with  her 
head  up,  a  clear  light  shining  in  her  gray  eyes — a 
faint  flush  on  her  cheeks. 

Colin  Quale,  meeting  her,  flickered  his  lashes 
and  smiled  :  "  Is  this  what  the  storm  did  to  you  ?  " 

"What?" 

"This  and  this."  He  touched  his  cheeks  and  his 
eyes.  "  To-day,  if  I  painted  you,  I  should  have  to 
put  pink  on  my  palette — yesterday  I  should  have 
needed  only  black  and  white." 

Mary  smiled  back  at  him.  "  Do  you  interpret 
things  always  through  the  medium  of  your  brush  ?  " 

"  Why  not?  Life  is  just  that — a  little  color  more 
or  less,  and  it  all  depends  on  the  hand  of  the  artist." 

"  What  a  wonderful  palette  He  has !  "  Her  eyes 
swept  the  sea  and  the  sky.  "  This  morning  the  world 
is  all  gold  and  blue." 

"And  yesterday  it  was  gray." 
380 


THE  HIGH  SEAS 

Mary  flashed  a  glance  at  him.  His  voice  had 
changed.  Delilah  was  coming  toward  them. 
"There's  material  I  like  to  work  with,"  he  said, 
'  there's  something  more  than  paint  or  canvas — liv- 
ing, breathing  beauty." 

"  He's  saying  things  about  you,"  Mary  said,  as 
Delilah  joined  them. 

Delilah,  coloring  faintly,  cast  down  her  eyes.  "  I'm 
afraid  of  liim,  Mary,"  she  said. 

Colin  laughed.     "  You're  not  afraid  of  any  one." 

"  Yes,  I  am.  You  analyze  my  mental  processes 
in  such  a  weird  fashion.  You  are  always  reading  me 
like  a  book." 

"  A  most  interesting  book,"  Colin's  lashes  quiv- 
ered, "  with  lovely  illustrations." 

They  laughed,  and  swept  away  into  a  brisk  walk, 
followed  by  curious  eyes. 

If  to  others  Mary's  radiance  seemed  a  miracle  of 
returning  health,  to  Porter  Bigelow  it  was  no  mira- 
cle. Nothing  could  have  more  completely  rung  the 
knell  of  his  hopes  than  this  radiance. 

Her  attitude  toward  him  was  irreproachablCc  She 
v?as  kinder,  indeed,  than  she  had  been  in  the  days 
when  he  had  tried  to  force  his  claims  upon  her.  She 
seemed  to  be  trying  by  her  friendliness  to  make  up 
for  something  which  she  had  withdrawn  from  him, 
and  he  knew  that  nothing  could  ever  make  up. 

So  it  came  about  that  he  spent  less  and  less  of  his 
time  with  her,  and  more  and  more  with  Leila — Leila 

381 


CONTRART  MART 

v^tio  needed  comforting,  and  who  welcomed  him  with 
such  sweet  and  cHnging  dependence — Leila  who 
hung  upon  his  advice,  Leila  who,  divining  his  hurt, 
strove  by  her  sweet  sympathy  to  help  him. 

Thus  they  came  in  due  time  to  London.  And 
when  Leila  and  her  father  left  for  the  German  baths, 
Porter  went  with  them. 

It  was  when  he  said  *'  Good-bye "  to  Mary  that 
his  voice  broke. 

"  Dear  Contrary  Mary,"  he  said,  "  the  old  name 
still  fits  you.  You  never  could,  and  you  never 
would,  and  now  you  never  will." 

Followed  for  Mary  quiet  days  with  Constance  and 
the  beautiful  baby,  days  in  which  the  sisters  were 
knit  together  by  the  bonds  of  mutual  grief.  The  lit- 
tle Mary-Constance  was  a  wonderful  comfort  to  both 
of  them ;  unconscious  of  sadness,  she  gurgled  and 
crowed  and  beamed,  winning  them  from  sorrowful 
thoughts  by  her  blandishments,  making  herself  the 
center  of  things,  so  that,  at  last,  all  their  little  world 
seemed  to  revolve  about  her 

And  always  in  these  quiet  days,  Mary  looked  for  a 
letter  from  across  the  high  seas,  and  at  last  it  came 
in  a  blue  envelope. 

It  arrived  one  morning  when  she  was  at  breakfast 
with  Constance  and  Gordon.  Handed  to  her  with 
other  letters,  she  left  it  unopened  and  laid  it  beside 
her  plate. 

382 


THE  HIGH  SEAS 

Gordon  finished  his  breakfast,  kissed  his  wife,  and 
went  away.  Constance,  looking  over  her  mail,  read 
bits  of  news  to  Mary.  Mary,  in  return,  read  bits  of 
news  to  Constance.  But  the  blue  envelope  by  her 
plate  lay  untouched,  until,  catching  her  sister's  eye, 
she  flushed. 

"  Constance,"  she  said,  "  it  is  from  Roger  Poole." 

"  Oh,  Mary,  and  was  that  why  Porter  went  away  ?  " 

"  Yes."     It  came  almost  defiantly. 

For  a  moment  the  young  matron  hesitated,  then 
she  held  out  her  arms.  *'  Dearest  girl,"  she  said, 
"  we  want  you  to  be  happy." 

Mary,  with  eyes  shining,  came  straight  to  that  lov- 
ing embrace. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  happy,"  she  said,  almost  breath- 
lessly, "  and  perhaps  my  way  of  being  happy  won't 
be  yours,  Con,  darling.  But  what  difference  does  it 
make,  so  long  as  we  are  both — happy  ?  " 

The  letter,  read  at  last  in  the  shelter  of  her  own 
room,  was  not  long. 

Among  the  Pines. 

Even  now  I  can't  quite  believe  that  your  letter  is 
true — I  have  read  it  and  reread  it — again  and  again, 
reading  into  it  each  time  new  meanings,  new  hope. 
And  to-night  it  lies  on  my  desk,  a  precious  docu- 
ment, tempting  me  to  say  things  which  perhaps  I 
should  not  say — tempting  me  to  plead  for  that  which 
perhaps  I  should  not  ask. 

Dear  woman — what  have  I  to  offer  you  ?    Just  a 
383 


CONTRA RT  MART 

home  down  here  among  the  sand-hills — a  litde  church 
that  will  soon  stand  in  a  circle  of  young  pines,  a  life 
of  work  in  a  little  rectory  near  the  little  church — for 
your  dreams  and  mine  are  to  come  true,  and  the 
little  church  will  be  built  within  a  year. 

Yet,  I  have  a  garden.  A  garden  of  souls.  Will 
you  come  into  it  ?  And  make  it  bloom,  as  you  have 
made  my  life  bloom  ?  All  that  I  am  you  have  made 
me.  When  I  sat  in  the  Tower  Rooms  hopeless,  you 
gave  me  hope.  When  I  lost  faith  in  myself,  it  shone 
in  your  eyes.  When  I  saw  your  brave  young  cour- 
age, my  courage  came  back  to  me.  It  was  you  who 
told  me  that  I  had  a  message  to  deliver. 

And  I  am  delivering  the  message — and  somehow 
I  cannot  feel  that  it  is  a  little  thing  to  offer,  when  I 
ask  you  to  share  in  this,  my  work 

Other  men  can  ofiter  you  a  castle — other  men  can 
give  to  you  a  life  of  ease.  I  can  bring  to  you  a  life 
in  which  we  shall  give  ourselves  to  each  other  and 
to  the  world.  I  can  give  you  love  that  is  equal  to 
any  man's.  I  can  give  you  a  future  which  will  make 
you  forget  the  past. 

Not  to  every  woman  would  I  dare  offer  what  I 
have  to  give — but  you  are  different  from  other 
women.  From  the  night  when  you  first  met  me 
frankly  with  your  brave  young  head  up  and  your 
eyes  shining,  I  have  known  that  you  were  different 
from  the  rest — a  woman  braver  and  stronger.  & 
woman  asking  more  of  life  than  softness. 

384 


^  THE  HIGH  SEAS 

And  no\«',  will  you  fight  with  me,  shoulder  to 
shoulder  ?     And  win  ? 

Somehow  I  feel  that  you  will  say  "  Yes."  Is  that 
the  right  attitude  for  a  lover?  But  surely  I  can  see 
a  little  way  into  your  heart.     Your  letter  let  me  see. 

If  I  seem  over-confident,  forgive  me.  But  I  know 
what  I  want  for  myself.  I  know  what  I  want  for  you. 
I  am  not  the  Roger  Poole  of  the  Tower  Rooms, 
beaten  and  broken.  I  am  Roger  Poole  of  the  Gar- 
den, marching  triumphantly  in  tune  with  the  uni- 
verse. 

As  I  write,  I  have  a  vision  upon  me  of  a  little 
white  house  not  far  from  the  little  white  church  in 
the  circle  of  young  pines — a  house  with  orchards 
sweeping  up  all  pink  behind  it  in  April,  and  with 
violets  in  the  borders  of  the  walk  in  January,  and 
with  roses  from  May  until  December. 

And  I  can  see  you  in  that  little  house.  I  shall 
see  you  in  it  until  you  say  something  which  will  des- 
troy that  vision.  But  you  won't  destroy  it.  Surely 
some  day  you  will  hear  the  mocking-birds  sing  in 
the  moonlight — as  I  am  hearing  them,  alone,  to- 
night. 

I  need  you,  I  want  you,  and  I  hope  that  it  is 
not  a  selfish  cry.  For  your  letter  has  told  me  that 
you,  too,  are  wanting — what?  Is  it  Love,  Mary 
dear,  and  Life  ?  ROGER. 


385 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

In  Which  a  Strange  Craft  Anchors  in  a  Sea  of 
Emerald  Light ;  and  in  Which  Mocking-Birds 
Sing  in  the  Moonlight. 

SWEEPING  through  a  country  of  white  sand  and 
of  charred  trees  run  hard  clay  highways. 
When  motor  cars  from  the  cities  and  health  resorts 
began  to  invade  the  pines,  it  was  found  that  the  old 
wagon  trails  were  inadequate  ;  hence  there  followed 
experiments  which  resulted  in  intersecting  orange- 
colored  roads,  throughout  the  desert-like  expanse. 

It  was  on  a  day  in  April  that  over  the  road  which 
led  up  toward  the  hills  there  sailed  the  snowy-white 
canopy  of  one  of  the  strange  land-craft  of  that  region 
— a  schooner-wagon  drawn  by  two  fat  mules  who 
walked  at  a  leisurely  but  steady  pace,  seemingly 
without  guidance  from  any  hand. 

Yet  that,  beneath  the  hooded  cover,  there  was  a 
directing  power,  was  demonstrated,  as  the  mules 
turned  suddenly  from  the  hot  road  to  a  wagon  path 
beneath  the  shelter  of  the  pines. 

It  was  strewn  thick  with  brown  needles,  and  the 
sharp  hoofs  of  the  little  animals  made  no  sound. 
Deeper  and  deeper  they  went  into  the  wood,  until 

386 


EMERALD  LIGHT 

the  swinging  craft  and  its  clumsy  steeds  seemed  to 
swim  in  a  sea  of  emerald  light. 

On  and  on  breasting  waves  of  golden  gloom, 
where  the  sunlight  sifted  in,  to  anchor  at  last  in  a 
still  space  where  the  great  trees  sang  overhead. 

Then  from  beneath  the  canopy  emerged  a  man  ir 
khaki. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  and  stood  for  a  moment  look- 
ing up  at  the  great  trees,  then  he  called  softly, 
"  Mary." 

She  came  to  the  back  of  the  wagon  and  he  lifted 
her  down. 

"  This  is  my  cathedral,"  he  said ;  "  it  is  the  place 
of  the  biggest  pines." 

She  leaned  against  him  and  looked  up.  His  arm 
was  about  her.  She  wore  a  thin  silk  blouse  and  a 
white  skirt.  Her  soft  fair  hair  was  blown  against  his 
cheek. 

"  Roger,"  she  said,  "  was  there  ever  such  a  honey- 
moon?" 

"  Was  there  ever  such  a  woman — such  a  wife  ?  " 

After  that  they  were  silent.  There  was  no  need 
for  words.  But  presently  he  spread  a  rug  for  her, 
and  built  their  fire,  and  they  had  their  lunch.  The 
mules  ate  comfortably  in  the  shade,  and  rested 
throughout  the  long  hot  hours  of  the  afternoon. 

Then  once  more  the  strange  craft  sailed  on.  On 
and  on  over  miles  of  orange  roadway,  passing  now 
and  then  an  orchard,  flaunting  the  rose-color  of  its 

387 


CONTRART  MART 

peach  trees  against  the  dun  background  of  sand; 
passing  again  between  drifts  of  dogwood,  which 
shone  Hke  snow  beneath  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun 
— saiHng  on  and  on  until  the  sun  went  down.  Then 
came  the  shadowy  twilight,  with  the  stars  coming 
out  in  the  warm  dusk — then  the  moonlight — ^and  the 
mocking-birds  singing. 


188 


JAMES   OLIVER  CURWOOD'S 

STORIES  OF  ADVENTURE 

May  b«  had  wherevar  books  an  told.      Ask  for  Grotstt  &  Duniap's  list 

■  ^ 

THE  RIVER'S  END 

A  story  of  the  Royal  Motmted  Police. 
THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 

Thrilling  adventures  in  the  Far  Northland. 
NOMADS  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  a  bear-cub  and  a  dog. 

KAZAN 

The  tale  of  a  "quarter-strain  wolf  and  three-quarters  husky"  torn 
between  the  call  of  the  human  and  his  wild  mate. 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

The  siory  of  the  son  of  the  blind  Grey  Wolf  and  the  g^aUant  part 
he  played  in  the  Uves  of  a  man  and  a  woman. 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

The  story  of  the  King  of  Beaver  Island,  a  Mormon  colony,  and  hia 
battle  with  Captain  Plum. 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

A  tale  of  love,  Indian  vengeance,  and  a  mystery  of  the  North. 
THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

A  tale  of  a  great  fight  in  the  "  valley  of  gold  "  for  a  woma*^ 

THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  storj'  of  Fort  o'  God,  where  the  wild  flavor  of  the  wilderness 
Is  blended  with  the  cotirtly  atmosphere  of  France. 

THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

The  story  of  Thor,  the  big  grizzly. 
ISOBEL 

A  love  story  of  the  Far  North. 
THE  WOLF  HUNTERS 

A  tlirilling  tale  of  adventure  in  the  Canadian  wilderness. 
THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

The  story  of  adventure  in  the  Hudson  Bay  wilds. 
THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Filled  with  exciting  incidents  in  the  land  of  strong  men  and  women. 
BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 

A  thrilling  story  of  the  Far  North.  The  great  Photoplay  was  made 
frotc  this  book. 

Gkosset  &  DuNLAP,        Publishers,        New  York 


ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

'      i  •  — ^ — :  a J 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  *  Djin>4p's  list 


THE  MAN  OF  THE  FOREST 

THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

THE  U.  P.  TRAIL 

WILDFIRE 

THE  BORDER  LEGION 

THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

RIDERS   OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STAR& 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 

THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 

DESERT  GOLD 

BETTY  ZANE 

•  **•••• 

LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOUTS 

The  life  story  of  ' '  Buffalo  Bill ' '  by  his  sistftf  Helen  Codj 
*Vetmore,  with  Foreword  and  conclusion  by  Zane  Grey. 

ZANE  GREY'S  BOOKS  FOR  BOYS 

KEN  WARD  IN  THE  JUNGLE 
THE  YOUNG  LION  HUNTER 
THE  YOUNG  FORESTER 
THE  YOUNG  PITCHER 
THE  SHORT  STOP 

THE  RED-HEADED  OUTFIELD  AND  OTHER 
BASEBALL  STORIES 

Grosset  &  Dunlap,        Publishers,        New  York 


FLORENCE   L.  BARCLAY'S 
NOVELS 


May  ba  had  wherever  books  art  sold.      Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 


THE  WHITE  LADIES  OF  WORCESTER 

A  novel  of  the  12th  Century.  The  heroine,  believing  she 
had  lost  her  lover,  enters  a  convent.  He  returns,  and  in- 
teresting developments  follow. 

THE  UPAS  TREE 

A  love  story  of  rare  charm.  It  deals  with  a  successful 
author  and  his  wife. 

THROUGH  THE  POSTERN  GATE 

The  story  of  a  seven  day  courtship,  in  which  the  dis- 
crepancy in  ages  vanished  into  insignificance  before  the 
convincing  demonstration  of  abiding  love. 

THE  ROSARY 

The  story  of  a  young  artist  who  is  reputed  to  love  beauty 
above  all  else  in  the  world,  but  who,  when  blinded  through 
an  accident,  gains  life's  greatest  happiness.  A  rare  story 
of  the  great  passion  of  two  real  people  superbly  capable  of 
love,  its  sacrifices  and  its  exceeding  reward. 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

The  lovely  young  Lady  Ingleby,  recently  widowed  by  the 
death  of  a  husband  who  never  understood  her,  meets  a  fine, 
clean  young  chap  who  is  ignorant  of  her  title  and  they  fall 
deeply  in  love  with  each  other.  When  he  learns  her  real 
identity  a  situation  of  singular  power  is  developed. 

THE  BROKEN  HALO 

The  story  of  a  young  man  whose  religious  belief  was 
shattered  in  childhood  and  restored  to  him  by  the  little 
white  lady,  many  years  older  than  himself,  to  whom  he  is 
passionately  devoted. 

THE  FOLLOWING  OF  THE  STAR 

The  story  of  a  young  missionary,  who,  about  to  start  for 
Africa,  marries  wealthy  Diana  Rivers,  in  order  to  help  her 
fulfill  the  conditions  of  her  uncle's  will, and  how  theyfinally 
come  to  love  each  other  and  are  reunited  after  experiences 

that  soften  and  purify. _^____ 

Grosset  &  Dunlap,        Publishers,        New  York 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

MARY  ROBERTS    RINEHART 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.    Ask  for  Grosset  t  Dunlap's  list 
DANGEROUS  DAYS. 


A  brilliant  story  of  married  life.    A  romance  of  fine  purpose  and 

stirring  appeal. 

THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE. 

illustrations  by  The  Kinneys. 

The  story  of  a  great  love  which  cannot  be  pictured — an  interlude 
—amazing,  romantic. 

LOVE  STORIES. 

This  book  is  exactly  what  its  title  indicates,  a  collection  of  love 
affairs — sparkling  with  humor,  tenderness  and  sweetness. 

"K.''    Illustrated. 

K.  LeMoyne,  famous  surgeon,  goes  to  live  in  a  little  town  where 
beautiful  Sidney  Page  lives.  She  is  in  training  to  become  a  nurse. 
The  joys  and  troubles  of  their  young  love  are  told  with  keen  and 
sympathetic  appreciation. 

THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN. 


Illustrated  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

An  absorbing  detective  story  woven  arotmd  the  mysterious  death 
of  the  "  Man  in  Lower  Ten." 

WHEN  A  MAN  MARRIES. 


Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher  and  Mayo  Bunker. 

A  young  artist,  whose  wife  had  recently  divorced  him,  finds  that 
his  aunt  is  soon  to  visit  him.  The  aunt,  who  contributes  to  the 
family  income,  knows  nothing  of  the  domestic  upheaval.  How  the 
young  man  met  the  situation  is  entertainingly  told. 

THE  CIRCULAR  STAIRCASE.   Illustrated  by  Lester  Ralph. 

The  occupants  of  "Sunnyside"  find  the  dead  body  of  Arnold 
Armstrong  on  the  circular  staircase.  Following  the  murder  a  bank 
failure  is  announced.  Around  these  two  events  is  woven  a  plot  of 
absorbing  interest. 

THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS.  (Photoplay  Edition.) 

Harmony  Wells,  studying  in  Vienna  to  be  a  great  violinist,  sud. 
denly  realizes  that  her  money  is  almost  gone.  She  meets  a  young 
ambitious  doctor  who  offers  her  chivalry  and  sympathy,  and  together 
with  world-worn  Dr.  Anna  and  Jimrhie,  the  waif,  they  share  their 
love  and  slender  means. 


Grosset  &  Dunlap,         Publishers,         New  YorX" 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  Is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


JAN  17 198a 
REC'D  CL  NOVlO'dB 


,  UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBflARY  FACILITY 


A     000  131  780     9 


iSi^fcfilM^^^^^^^te 


